#Vena vents

[venacoeurva]

He got here and is chillin

#vena vents #not art #I would have given him a martini glass for effect but we don't have those

[herr-surgeon]

being young and disabled really sucks. vent / rant

being a younger disabled / chronically ill person really, really sucks, honestly.

People don’t believe me when I say I’m in pain and can’t do things, people don’t believe me when I say what’s wrong. People don’t seem to want to help and it hurts.

it hurts knowing a lot of my friends very well will outlive me, with chronic illness and all. It hurts knowing they’re going to forget me or I’ll be a sob story or pity party or whatever.

I feel like I can barely take care of myself or enjoy things, honestly. I feel like I’m probably awful to be around, I’m always in pain and crabby because of it. I’m always tired and I’m always angry. I’m angry at the life that’s getting taken from me, I’m angry at the hobbies I lose, I’m angry that other people got to be healthy at first. I’m angry that I was born sickly, I’m angry that I know people who got a decade or three of being healthy and happy.

I wish I got to mourn without looking like I’m bitter or ungrateful.

#vena moment #actually disabled #disability vent #chronic disability #chronic illness #i hate chronic illness for what it’s done to me #venting #ranting

[liviusofpella]

part two: the lights of new york

Pairing: Tyril x m!OC (Jude St. Clair)

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow; modern au!

Word count: 4600

Rating: T

Warnings: cursing, mention of alcohol, mention of drugs 

Category: short-series, modern au

A/n: here's an insight into Jude's life, you're free to hate me for what I did

Tag list: @cashweasel @starlight-starfury @lilyoffandoms @lazypartridge @watatsumi-island @sophie-summer @brycesgirl @choicesficwriterscreations

pinterest boards: Tyril | Jude | Tyril x Jude

playlist: there's a change! »here's« a new one for those who're interested

Tuesday

afterhours. 

Numb, exhausted, and terribly cold, Jude sat sprawled on a particularly uncomfortable red leather couch with his eyes glued to the massive neon sign with the club’s name. afterhours. Accurate, he thought. It used to be his favourite spot in Manhattan whenever he visited the States as a teenager. Always surrounded by a group of attention seeking leechers, people vying for his attention, buying him drinks, offering drugs, or even themselves. Unfortunately, this was Jude's reputation—opiate enthusiast, ladykiller, family's black sheep. The name St. Clair meant influence. It was enough to be photographed next to him once, and one could be catapulted into stardom, fleeting but enough for a start of a career. 

Jude closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the familiar burning sensation and tears forming under his eyelids. 

Woozy, overstimulated, drunk, on drugs. Pathetic. Someone offered to change location, saying it’s well past midnight. He felt a nudge on his arm but waved them off, and soon he was left alone in their lounge, with a dirty table full of empty glasses and white powder remains. He stared at his phone for a long time before finding the strength to pick it up and search for the right number. 

Drugs didn’t give him the desired effect any more, at least not to the desired degree. Jude yawned and allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks, hoping they would ease the burning sensation. 

“Please, pick me up,” Jude cried into the phone ten minutes later, 

That night, after eighteen months under strong encouragement of his company, his strong will broke, and he joined his posse in what they liked to call “happy-pill-sharing,” and then continued to fill his stomach with rum based cocktails. By the time he called James, he was barely conscious.

Wednesday

The perks of being born into a family of multimillionaires include: being spoiled rotten, having the access to the best of everything, and, as in Julian St. Clair’s case, unlimited access to high quality drugs. Growing up, he had everything his little heart desired as well as the best schools, tutors, and healthcare. Léa St. Clair, Jude’s mother, despite having spent hundreds of hours on reading parenting books, made a cardinal mistake in raising her long-awaited, prayed for child—she treated him as her best friend rather than a son. Having failed with her first two sons, she was desperate to have at least one worthy heir to the family’s legacy, but as it turned out, the young St. Clair had always been somewhat rebellious, always pushing the limits of the law and people’s patience with him. The moment Léa realized her mistake, Jude was already fifteen, and she just ended the call with the school principal, who claimed her son was found on the school property while partaking in sexual activities with another student. Forty minutes later, her heart sank even deeper when she learned the student was Vena Starfury’s son. She remembered vividly the poorly hidden smirk of the principal when he said Julian was under the influence of drugs—he knew the school budget was about to be very generously aided.

That evening, Léa raised a hand at her son for the first time, giving vent to her emotions; it was an event that Jude will forever wear painted on his face as his mother’s expensive rings left a scar on his cheekbone. Later that afternoon along with her husband, Léa announced that Julian will transfer to London where his rather strict and conservative aunt, Léa’s sister, would take care of him. She pinned her hopes in Elisabeth to smarten up her son. However, it soon emerged that Julian was on a slippery slope and way too far to be helped in ways that didn’t involve incapacitation.  

James sighed heavily before splashing his tired face with cold water. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought how little has changed since Jude and him were in high school and most of their nights looked exactly like this—Jude mixing drugs with alcohol, drowning his emotions in vodka, fooling around with that Starfury guy, and him helping him sneak back into the fortress of a home or letting him crash on his sofa. Almost unwillingly, his hand opened the cabinet above the sink, his eyes following his own reflection in the mirror, trying to delay the moment of looking inside. Dicodid, Vicodin, Exalgo, Percodan. James scanned the etiquettes, cursing in his mind. The exact same starter pack as the one they used back in the days when they would go clubbing almost every night in London.   

“What the fuck are you doing with your life, Jules?”

Having closed the cabinet, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, wondering whether it’s loathing or pity he felt for himself. Whichever one of those options it was, he also felt compassion for his friend. James understood how difficult it was to get out of addiction, at least the one that started as a way to relax and become a member of London’s elite clubbing “boy club.” The requirements were rather simple: be rich, attend Cambridge, be ready to party hard. Now that he thought of it he felt resentment, but back in the day, being accepted into the group was Julian and his most important task. That’s where Jude gained his popularity, being labelled as the “pretty, sad boy” - a title that was not too far from the truth. Unlike James, Julian fell into the trap of addiction easily, since he was used to taking abnormal amounts of pain relievers since he was sixteen. 

James was known as the one responsible for the break-up of the group after a year of joining - praised by many for that decision but critiqued by even more. He was able to quit drugs easily, but as it soon turned out, Julian needed the intervention of professionals. 

He shook his head. It was definitely loathing.

“We need to have you up and running by the evening, Jules, so please try to get your shit together.”

Jude looked about the spacious venue, smiling to himself at the overwhelming amounts of white marble, long, white candles, and his family’s favourite Juliet Roses crowded in multiple massive, ceramic planters. His mother certainly knew how to project an image of an elegant, influential, wealthy family. 

His gaze focused on the familiar piano player until his mother blocked the view.

“Julian, I need you to behave tonight, this is an important event.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m a big boy, mom.”

“You tend to forget that,” she concluded curtly, and straightened his tie. “Find Adira, socialize with her. It’s good press.”

Jude rolled his eyes in response but agreed reluctantly. Soon, his brothers joined him.

“How do you like the set-up, Jay?”

James wrapped an arm around his neck and reached for a champagne flute carried by a passing-by waitress. 

“I love our family reunions, there's always so much drama,” Jude chattered, swirling his wine glass, jaded. 

"You are the cause of all the drama," Pierre rolled his eyes.

James snickered. "Attention-whore."

"Please don't mess it up at least once? It's important for dad," the oldest St. Clair continued, staring his brother down. Jude shrugged.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. It's not like I was going to make out with Adira on the dance floor or something."

"Don't complain, Jules,” James chipped in. “You can say what you want about mom, but she has your type down pat—tall, skinny, rich, and pretty fucking annoying," he teased.

"Only if she had a dick."

Pierre groaned. "Oh my god, just shut. You," Pierre pointed at James. "No stupid, suggestive comments, and you," his finger slid towards Jude. "Just don't be yourself. Sit still and look pretty."

"Aye."

“And grow the fuck up, it’s high time.”

After spending about half an hour with Pierre and James, Jude went on the prowl for his mother’s choice of a perfect daughter-in-law, that is Jude’s wife. It didn’t matter much that he refused ten years ago to form any kind of relationship with Adira, and he didn’t change his mind, Léa invited her to all important events just so the two of them would be seen in one room. Adira was something of a damage control after all of Julian’s excesses.

"I was a good boy all night, mom!"

"Julian, stop this tomfoolery. Grandma Eloise said that the injury reared its head."

"The pain is never gone. It just so happens to increase in intensity when I'm in this house," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Must be a trauma response after kicking me out or something."

Léa clenched her fists. "I don't need the press to focus on your foolish injury, Julian," she said curtly and handed him a key. "You know where to go. Don't make us look bad."

For a short second, he looked into his mother's cold eyes, desperately searching for the crumbs of motherly affection and care, yet was met with icy indifference. Don't make us look bad. He smiled contemptuously. That's not what she'd say to his brothers, no. Pierre and James heard, “I'm proud of you.” Sometimes “Make us proud.” Julian watched his mother's lean back disappear behind the mahogany door, and he cursed. You know where. 

It was almost 11. He rubbed his tired eyes and fighting the urge to stay there and go to sleep, Jude got up, feeling woozy and slightly unsteady on his feet, and made his way back to the party. Appearing, seemingly, out of the blue, Pierre nudged his shoulder. 

"The hell've you been?"

Jude looked at his tipsy oldest brother, and smiled. "Cig break," he nodded towards their father, who was revising his speech hastily. "Nils’ looking dapper as fuck, you think he's gonna announce his retirement?"

"I don't think he'd need that many cameras for that. It's something bigger."

James cursed under his breath, seeing the state his brothers were in. He took a place next to them by one of the few tables where there was any food left and helped himself to one of the last Gruyère and Crab palmiers. "This party is going fantastically. Dad's side chick is one of the guests, mother is murdering him with her stare, Pierre's tipsy and Jules' high. A strong family with values."

Julian ignored his remark. "What's the big announcement, smart ass?"

“No clue. I’m surprised he actually didn’t tell us.”

Jude rubbed his burning eyelids and crossed his arms on his chest, watching his father stoically deliver his well-rehearsed speech. He had trouble focusing on his words, though, having suddenly felt a bit nauseous.

He reached for the last full champagne flute.

"Our company has been very vocal about starting the research on that matter and finding the ultimate cure; however, that journey proved not only difficult but also incredibly expensive. We considered putting the research on hold, but old friends and business partners offered to aid us in this noble cause. One of the main sponsors will be Valir and Vena Starfury…"

Jude choked on the champagne he'd been drinking, causing several heads to turn in his direction. He turned around, coughing as silently as possible, dying inside, while James and Pierre covering him with their bodies.

"Jules, you’re causing drama."

Taking several feel breaths and wiping the tears off his cheeks, he finally retook his place, facing his father, who was thanking the family’s “old friends and generous benefactors.” 

"What a circus," James sighed. "Are we really so broke we have to partner with them?"

"It's good PR," Pierre hid his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I suppose.” 

“How does it feel to see your nemeses again?”

Jude shrugged, watching Tyril’s parents intently. Vena still looked like a ghost, wearing a red, long, elegant dress, her thin arms wrapped around her husband’s. “I was at their party last week.”

“And you’re still in one piece?”

“I’m afraid Tyril isn’t, he hasn’t returned any of my calls since then.”

James eyed Vena inquiringly. “She does look like she’s grieving.”

“That’s just her face,” Pierre mumbled and took a seat, the exhaustion and alcohol finally catching up with his mind. “Let’s just hope this announcement means the party’s ending.” 

Nils rubbed his tired eyes, thankful that the party had come to an end. Social events were his wife’s forte, he was more than happy to be an arm candy. 

He eyed his youngest son up. "It's mutually beneficial. No stupid shenanigans," he pointed a finger at him. 

"Too late for that," Jude smirked to himself, before he thought of what he'd just said. 

"Julian, God as my witness, I will disown you if you're involved with that boy again."

He rolled his eyes theatrically, hoping nobody could sense his fear. "I meant Adira, chill, dad. We were making out on the terrace and a reporter caught us when we were about to—"

"Spare me the details," he cut him off curtly. "I warn you, Julian."

"Fine, I promise not to suck off the one that shall not be named in this house's dick, daddy. You might wanna take up with mom the drug distribution, though," he put the key on the table. "The disappointment is leaving the premises, see you when you need good press," he said with tongue in cheek. With his back towards his family, he sent them a peace sign before the door closed. He sighed with relief.

Thursday

The longed-for six in the afternoon approached and the sea of sweaty students flooded out of the field into the locker room, loudly discussing their plans for the weekend, making plans to hang out, talking about the English test. As always, Tyril sat down on the bench, waiting patiently for everyone else to leave, so he can take a quick shower and go home. The room emptied after more or less twenty minutes, therefore, he hung the towel over his shoulder and reached for the bag with toiletries when he heard shuffling. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Tyril's brows furrowed upon hearing the stream of swear words and despite his initial instinct to leave and not get caught up in other people's business, his legs were already leading him towards the last row of brand-new red, metal lockers. Seconds later, his eyes came across a tall, lean kid, clutching his right hand. 

His mouth produced a sentence before he could stop himself. "Do you need help?" 

Startled, the boy staggered back, hitting the locker's door with his elbow, which resulted in another wave of curses hitting Tyril's ears. Only then, he noticed blood dripping from the hand his companion was clutching.

"Get lost and don't even think of calling anyone," the blonde responded, wrapping the hand in the white shirt he took off his back. Not convincing enough to make Tyril leave, though. 

"You've left a trail of blood in your way, I don't need to tell anyone for them to notice."

“Shit,” the stranger concluded, realizing Tyril was right. He ruffled his already messy hair with the healthy hand and sighed loudly, trying to come up with a plan of how to get home without making any more mess and avoiding getting unwanted help. His eyes landed on Tyril, who stood astride with his hands crossed on his chest. “It’s fine, go back to what you were doing.”

“What did you even do?”

“Let it go.”

“Would you let it go if someone needed help?”

The boy gave Tyril an angry look. Making sure the stranger wouldn't run away, Tyril excused himself for a moment—in the meantime, Julian stepped back into the shower room and began cleaning up the mess hastily, not paying attention to the damage he was making. In a twisted, way the glass shards cutting through his skin felt almost pleasant, deserved, a feeling that was an old friend returning after a long separation. He threw the shards into the nearest bin and ripped several paper towels to wipe the blood off the white tiles when he heard a voice behind himself.

"I brought alcohol wipes and a bandage if you're still interested," Tyril said mockingly and immediately bit his tongue. 

"I'm Julian, by the way," the blonde spoke up. Tyril opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Julian intercepted him. "You're the Starfury kid, I know you. Your folks funded the library."

Slightly embarrassed and suddenly shy, Tyril didn’t look up from the cut. A few drops of blood fell onto his trousers.

“Shit, sorry,” Julian mumbled. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

“No need. There, it should be fine until you get home,” Tyril responded, having tied up the bandage and looked up at his companion, only now realizing how scrutinisingly he’d been watched all this time.  

"Thanks, nurse. I guess you’re not as much of a stuck-up dick as they say.”

“Great, just what we needed,” James mumbled, seeing a tall figure enter the spacious living room. The man quickly made his way towards the open terrace door, wondering who was Jude’s guest. The second he stepped outside, he sneered.

“I’ve been calling you all week,” Tyril addressed his half-naked boyfriend who, pretending not to hear, continued to smoke his cigarette, watching the New York’s skyline. “Jude.”

“He’s completely fucked up—"

"I can see that, but what, pray tell, are you doing here?"

"Playing your boyfriend's sitter again while the two of you keep sneaking around to fuck in the closet. Where the hell've you been all week?"

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Tyril let out a tired sigh. James was one of his least-favourite people in the world. "Stop acting like you're doing me a favour, James, because we both know you're here only to make yourself feel better."

"Yet I'm still here while you've been cosying up to your ex fiancée— or was it that stray you fucked in seven different states?"

"What the fuck is your problem, James?"

"I'm tired of fixing him once you're done playing his boyfriend! Look at him! Are you proud of what you're doing to him? Take a good look, Ty, ‘cause I don't think the last time taught you anything."

"Just shut the fuck up, both of you," Jude scolded them, rubbing his eyes and finally turning around to face the fighting men. "Just shut up. I’m fine."

Having put out his cigarette, he approached Tyril and placed a short kiss on his lips, then made his way towards the kitchen. 

James shook his head. "You two bring out the worst in each other."

“Weren't you the one who partied with him for years?”

“I was also the one who took him to rehab, dickhead.”

“How noble of you to fix what you’ve broken.”

“Oh, piss off. Since you’re here, I’m heading home.”

“You’re high,” Tyril stated as he looked into his boyfriend’s dilated pupils. Jude’s eyes fogged for yet another time that night, and he had to avert his gaze. “Why?”

Jude shrugged. “Rough week, I guess?”

“Julian, don’t play dumb.”

“Then don't ask stupid questions.”

Tyril’s jaw tightened. “Alright, I have a better question—what happened back then in the locker room? What the hell did you do?”

“Oh fucking—, you just won’t drop it, will you?” Jude laughed, desperately, while his fingers tugged at the ends of his ruffled hair. Tyril noticed how his body trembled and wondered whether it’s caused by the drugs or the emotions. “I smashed the mirror with my hand! Does that answer satisfy you?! I got into an argument with my mother over the phone, and she pissed me off to such a degree,” his voice echoed within the empty halls. “I ruptured a nerve. It was sawn back together, but the damage was done,” he added quietly after a moment of silence. “The nerve is damaged, irreparable, and that shit hurts, Ty. Becoming addicted to opioids is a matter of time.”

Jude sprawled on the sofa, having suddenly felt dizzy and overwhelmed by the emotions. Tyril observed him, recollecting the memory of that day.

“Wouldn’t rupturing a nerve hurt much more?”

Praying in his mind that Jude won’t take that question as offence, Tyril slumped against the nearest wall with his back. It was too late for an argument, and Jude was already exasperated enough.

“Yeah, well, I made sure shit’ll stain when you left.”

“Can I see?”

Silence. Jude watched him for a while, silently, and Tyril was about to apologize for asking when his boyfriend agreed. When he took Julian’s arm in his hands, the first thing he noticed was a vertical scar, straight and pale, about ten centimetres long with barely perceptible tiny dots on each side. “It’s impossible not to notice, so how the hell did I manage to do that?”

“To be fair, I do a decent job in hiding it.”

Stupid. Tyril felt like an idiot, and, to crown it all, a selfish one. He really did only care about himself and noticed only what he wanted to. 

Focusing his gaze on the open balcony door which let in the chilly wind, he desperately leafed through his memory, trying to find at least one connected to that incident which he might have ignored, but to no avail. 

“Does your hand always twitch like this?”

“Yes, but usually not as hard.”

“Is that why you got addicted in the first place?”

Jude nodded. They sat in silence for a while, slightly shivering, Jude from the drugs, Tyril from the cold, pondering over what just happened. Tyril felt guilty. Maybe if he had found the time to see him, this wouldn't happen. Maybe if they hadn’t met, Jude’s life would be much better. Jude wondered if he did the right thing by telling Tyril the truth, knowing that he’d feel guilty, but he quickly cast that thought aside when he felt a wave of exhaustion wash all over him. 

“I won’t go back into rehab, Ty,” he mumbled indistinctly. Tyril watched him until he fell asleep on the sofa and covered him with a blanket.

Despite the exhaustion, Tyril did not get a wink of sleep that night, too anxious that his boyfriend would choke on his own vomit. Feeling helpless, he called the only person who could actually help. Adeline appeared at Jude’s doorstep minutes before six in the morning with two paper shopping bags filled to the brim.

"You have one hell of a nerve to ask for my help.”

"Why are you here, then?"

"I still have some respect left for Julian," she said, looking at his half-naked, unconscious body. "Unlike himself."

"Did you buy—"

"Of course I did, drop the stupid questions," she grunted, and made her way to the kitchen where she began unpacking the bags. "Take him to bed, we'll start tomorrow. He’ll probably wake up by the evening, make sure he eats, drinks a lot of water, and does not go to another party."

Tyril nodded, watching her gracious movements for a few more seconds before taking his boyfriends body into his arms and making his way towards the bedroom. Once his pale body was tucked in, Tyril pressed his lips to Jude’s temple.

"Stay," Jude mumbled, faintly catching his boyfriend's hand. Tyril crouched next to the bed and placed a kiss on his hand, waiting for him to fall back asleep.

"Why did you let him fall back like that, moron?" Adeline punched her exfiancé’s arm once he got close enough. She was furious. "How could you let that happen, knowing that we have done this before and that he was in rehab?!"

"Adeline, I'm not his guardian! We couldn't meet this week and—"

"Always excuses. You're never guilty."

"That's not true and you know that. During our relationship, I always took the blame."

"Not always, just when you were wrong, which happened most of the time," she mocked and resumed putting the groceries away. "You don't deserve good people in your life. It's truly a mystery to me how you get them. You destroy everyone."

He clenched his fists. "What do you mean?"

Adeline eyed him for a while in silence. Her action was disturbed by the fridge reminder to close the door. "Julian never hid that what pushed him towards his infamous drug-spree and joining that stupid club in London was your breakup. You cut him off, even though you had every possibility to keep in touch. Then, after many years of relationship, you basically left me at the altar to run away with a random whore. And what about her? Why aren't you with her, since she was so important to you? Did you manage to destroy her as well in a week?"

He crossed his arms, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Selene was already destroyed."

"And you left her."

"No, she left me "

"Serves you right."

"God, can you stop already? I get it, I hurt you, and I'm sorry—"

"That's the thing, Tyril,” she cut him off. “You think you're sorry, but you don't understand how it works. You're sorry about the consequences of your actions, not about the actions themselves. You keep making the same mistakes, hurting people in the exact same way, and you're offended they take that damn offence!"

“Adeline, I don’t want to fight,” he sighed, tiredly.

“Good, you’re in no position to argue with what I’ve just said. I’m not interested in your excuses.”

Friday

Back to the old ways? St. Clair & entourage cruising NY’s nightclubs  

St. Clair: loved-up and simper in Manhattan’s Fleur Room

Adeline sighed, reading the headlines of two of the most popular gossip magazines. Jude, very much unlike Tyril, enjoyed his status of a celebrity. It was an easy way of getting whatever and wherever he wanted, especially when drugs were involved. Interviews, photoshoots, and his blossoming music career, kept him entertained. This was the exact reason for the first rumours.

Someone noticed that where Jude was, Tyril was as well. Tyril accompanied his boyfriend to photoshoots, to interviews, to parties. When asked about it, he’d just laugh it off but never denied, which only fuelled the rumours. 

Adeline put his phone away and smiled at Jude, who’d just woken up and took a seat next to him on the bar stool.

"How are we feeling today, Julian?"

"Weak as a baby, and I'm certain my head will explode any minute, thanks for asking! How are you?"

"No vomiting?"

"Not now—I’ve prayed to the porcelain god all night."

Adeline's brows slightly furrowed. "Where's Tyril?"

"Making up for lost sleep. He stayed up all night with me, probably making sure I didn't choke on my own puke and die and end this circus and—"

"Stop talking," she cut him off, demandingly, and placed a glass of water and a handful of vitamins and supplements next to his face. "Tyril and I wouldn't be here if we didn't care about you. We're here to help you get better, but if you stop cooperating, I will drag you to the nearest rehab by your hair."

"Okay, fine! Take it easy, girl." 

He swallowed the pills obediently, winking at Adeline, trying to defuse the tension hanging in the air. They both knew the worst was still before them. They’ve been there before. They knew the messy part was yet to come.

In the meantime, though, they smiled at each other softly. “Thanks for helping, Addy.”

#yeah its been a while.... #tyril starfury #tyril x oc #tyril x jude #oc: jude st clair #choices tyril #blades of light and shadow #choices blades #choices bolas #choices stories you play #cfwc fics of the week #cfwc #its late so im not proofreading anymore enjoy my typos<3

[ochoislas]

VIVIR                      a Paul Palgen

Acercad vuestro cuerpo a la tierna sazón, vuestro paso aguzado a las venas del humus, el camino alargad cuanto meza un deseo por el llano que cierra el abrazo del sueño.

Llevad esta caricia a modestas raíces, indolentes secretos de simientes hondas, a la hoja que rehíla y despabila al ave, a la flor donde ya se recoge la abeja.

Vuestro paso tentad por medio del rebaño cuya queja adelanta a través del recuerdo cual río que sosiega saber cierto donde le espera el vasto prado del más viejo océano.

Hay que catar el viento allende las sazones que destapa los pechos trémulos de luz. El día no alteró las playas de la noche: entre cabos y antenas andad a perderos.

¡Responda a vuestros dedos la sangre callada! ¡Respondan vuestros lloros al llanto del polen! ¡Levántense los párpados de las corolas en tal jardín sin sombra donde niñez muere!

Vivid con el mirar cruzado de prodigios, zozobra de las manos en mies amorosa, en crineras del sol y en las de los caballos. Vivid para que brinde rumores la tierra.

*

VIVRE                      à Paul Palgen

Approchez votre corps de la jeune saison, Votre pas attentif aux veines de l'humus, Cette marche aussi loin que la berce un désir Sur la plaine où finit l'étreinte du sommeil.

Portez cette caresse aux plus humbles racines, Aux secrets paresseux des profondes semences, À la feuille qui tremble et réveille l'oiseau, À la fleur où déjà se recueille l'abeille.

Essayez votre pas au milieu du troupeau Dont la plaine s'avance à travers la mémoire Comme un fleuve apaisé de connaître la place Où l'attend pour brouter le plus vieil océan.

Il faut tenter le vent qui survit aux saisons Et decouvre vos seins agités de lumière. Le jour n'a point changé les rives de la nuit : Egarez-vous parmi ses mâts et ses cordages.

Que réponde à vos doigts le silence su sang ! Que répondent vos pleurs aux larmes du pollen ! Que se soulèvent des paupières de corolles Dans ce jardin sans ombre où s'achève l'enfance !

Vivez avec les yeux traversés de miracles, Long naufrage des mains dans l'amour des moissons, Dans les crinières des chevaux et du soleil. Vivez pour que la terre accorde ses rumeurs.

Edmond Vandercammen

di-versión©ochoislas

#Edmond Vandercammen #literatura francesa #literatura de Bélgica #poesía contemporánea #reflexión #comunión #tierra #portento #vida #di-versiones©ochoislas

[virtuallybrokenribs]

autistic vent

NO LO SOPORTO MAS, PQ SOY TAN INCOMODO CON LA GENTE, PQ NO SE MANTENER CONVERSACIONES, PQ NOSE MIRAR Q LOS OJOS, PQ NOSE SACAR TEMA DE CONVERSACION, PQ CUENTO COSAS QUE NO TENDRIA QUE CONTAR, PQ MIENTO SIN RAZON, PQ FINJO MI PERSONALIDAD, PQ SOY ASI PQ PQ PQ, QUIERO CORTARME LAS VENAS HASTA SER OTRA PERSONA

[wtfman2]

Vente a mi cabeza a ver qué entiendes.

Sácame la pena de las venas con los dientes.

Vengo con la tara en la cabeza desde el vientre.

Cuida a tus demonios pero no los alimentes.

[internetglitchstuff]

https://t.co/mQp2TdvP6J https://t.co/7bTCohw35m {"itemId":311698331426,"title":"Vena Air Vent Adjustable Car Vehicle Spring Mount Holder Stand for Smartphone","endsAt":"2019-05-02T20:32:10.000Z","imageUrl":"https://t.co/BtfZqpzA1K} https://t.co/aqLUbHA8aR April 09, 2019 at 08:… https://t.co/4Uxngfd2Pi http://twitter.com/AmazonBay4u/status/1115643593920741376 April 09, 2019 at 04:52PM

https://t.co/mQp2TdvP6J https://t.co/7bTCohw35m {"itemId":311698331426,"title":"Vena Air Vent Adjustable Car Vehicle Spring Mount Holder Stand for Smartphone","endsAt":"2019-05-02T20:32:10.000Z","imageUrl":"https://t.co/BtfZqpzA1K} https://t.co/aqLUbHA8aR April 09, 2019 at 08:… pic.twitter.com/4Uxngfd2Pi

— AmazonBay4u (@AmazonBay4u) April 9, 2019

#itemId #title #https://t.co/mQp2TdvP6J https://t.co/7bTCohw35m {:311698331426 #:"Vena Air Vent Adjus

[venacoeurva]

obsessed with these little mouse coin purses again

#I need an OC who would have something like this #something tells me Lenore would because it's unusually cute of him #vena vents #not art #Wren would also have one mainly on the premise that he would love a functional gimmick #I don't really have a coin purse I can really take anywhere so I am Considering since they aren't very pricey

[miguelangelolvera]

La familia literaria: El blog.

Hola hermano lector, me da mucho gusto conocerte, me presento, mi nombre es Cometas en el Cielo y hoy tengo el honor de darte la bienvenida a este tu espacio para conocerme a mi y a mis amigos libros, te aseguro tener un rato de entretenimiento en el cual te interesaras por nosotros y por nuevas historias que hablen más allá de tu propio contexto, pero basta de tanto bla bla bla y vamos a comenzar

La historia detrás��de mi historia.

Como en todo, la primera impresión es lo que cuenta, que tal si te doy un recorrido por lo que soy, para que te quedes con el ojo cuadrado.

Obra: Como ya te lo mencione mi nombre es Cometas en el Cielo, soy un libro extraordinario, con una excelente trama y que abre tu pensamiento e imaginación para que ilustres en tu mente mi historia, como consejo, se vale llorar hermano.

Año: Fui publicado en el año del 2003, lo sé, ya se me notan un poco los años.

Género: Pertenezco al género narrativo, dentro del subgénero de novela.

Autor: El nombre de mi papá es Khaled Hosseini.

Nacionalidad: Mi papá nació en Kabul, Afganistán pero también cuenta con la nacionalidad estadounidense.

Otros libros: Otro hermanos míos que podría mencionar son: Mil Soles Esplendidos, Y las montañas hablaron y suplica a la mar, la verdad es que somos una familia muy apegada a las raíces de nuestro padre.

Que caracteriza al autor: Mi papá siempre se ha caracterizado por apegar mucho su escritura a sus raíces, le gusta mucho usar terminología de su país y es muy explícito detallando lugares, pensamientos y rasgos físicos de nuestros personajes.

Ahi te va una fórmula. Todo= A mi contexto.

En este apartado encontrarás un análisis-contexto de mi.

Habitantes y bandera.

Religión= Mi contexto.

Islam= Mi contexto.

Geografía= Mi contexto.

Cultura= Mi contexto. 

Justificación y explicación temas Cometas en el cielo

Lidiar con nuestro opuesto-nuestro.

Dentro de historia, podríamos encontrar diferentes representaciones de personalidades, por un lado tenemos la bondad y la amabilidad de Hassan, por el contrario tenemos la maldad y la crueldad de Assef, en este personaje no se le puede encontrar algo positivo,  este personaje solo piensa en cometer atrocidades contra los hazara, dentro de historia, podemos ver que Amir: se puede sentir identificado con estos personajes: pues aunque estos dos polos opuestos se adentran en el, por un lado Assef tiene un odio impresionante contra Hassan, puesto que el es un hazara, por otro lado Amir siente esta emoción en un grado diferente, pues él nunca pudo aprender a reflexionar, sobre el porqué su padre admiraba más a Hassan que a el mismo, y esto en el quizás provocó que Amir, siente celos de Hassan e incluso viendo a Hassan como un símbolo de la cobardía de que el cometió aquel dia de la violación de Hassan.

Y por algo es la situación que se marca en por salvar a Sohrab, pues si de verdad Amir piensa en redimirse por estas situaciones y honrar la memoria de su medio hermano, tiene que afrontar la parte más oscura que hubo dentro de el y que ahora lo tenia enfrente a Assef.

Párrafo: Otra costilla rota, esta vez una de la izquierda. Lo que me resultaba tan divertido era que, por primera vez desde el invierno de 1975, me sentía en paz. Me reía porque me daba cuenta de que, en algún escondrijo recóndito de mi cabeza, había estado esperando desde entonces que llegara ese momento. Recordaba el día en que, en la colina, le lancé granadas a Hassan para provocarlo. Él se limitó a permanecer inmóvil, sin hacer nada, mientras el jugo rojo le traspasaba la camisa como si de sangre se tratara. Luego me arrebató una granada de la mano y se la aplastó contra la frente. «¿Estás satisfecho ahora? —murmuró entre dientes—. ¿Te sientes mejor?» Pero no me sentía satisfecho ni mejor. Sin embargo, ahora sí. Tenía el cuerpo roto (hasta qué punto sólo lo descubriría posteriormente), pero me sentía curado. Curado por fin. Reí.

Un pueblo que llora, que grita, que sangra ...

En el libro, podemos ver repetidas ocasiones como Hassan y su padre, son víctimas de discriminación por ser parte del pueblo hazara, principalmente, esta actitud soberbia la podemos encontrar en Assef y ne soldados done pasando un dia Hassan. Dentro de un contexto actual. La situación de los Hazaras hoy en día en Afganistán son criminales, siendo que en 2013,  Decenas de ellos han sido secuestrado durante esos tiempos y se cree que por grupos radicales, también fue escenario de una sangrienta campaña de extremismo contra este pueblo. pues hoy en día ese pueblo sangra que es perseguido por Talibanes, Al Qaeda, y grupos extremistas del estado islámico.

Párrafo.

Me quedé asombrado cuando descubrí que había un capítulo entero dedicado a la historia de los hazaras. ¡Un capítulo entero dedicado al pueblo de Hassan! Allí leí que mi pueblo, los pastunes, había perseguido y oprimido a los hazaras, que éstos habían intentado liberarse una y otra vez a lo largo de los siglos, pero que los pastunes habían «sofocado sus intentos de rebelión con una violencia indescriptible». El libro decía que mi pueblo había matado a los hazaras, los había torturado, prendido fuego a sus hogares y vendido a sus mujeres; que la razón por la que los pastunes habían masacrado a los hazaras era, en parte, porque aquéllos eran musulmanes sunnitas, mientras que éstos eran chiítas. El libro decía muchas cosas que yo no sabía, cosas que mis profesores jamás habían mencionado, y Baba tampoco. Decía también algunas cosas que yo sí sabía, como que la gente llamaba a los hazaras «comedores de ratas, narices chatas, burros de carga». Había oído a algunos niños del vecindario llamarle todo eso a Hassan.

DIOS ES REDONDO.

Muchas gracias Cometas en el Cielo, eso estuvo increíble, a ver cuando me invitas a un café literario para seguir echando el chisme, bueno, hola hermanito lector. ¿Como estás?. Espero te la estés pasando bien, me presento compitas, mi nombre es Dios es Redondo, y estoy aquí para adentrate a un más en esta bonita experiencia dentro de este blog, incluso para que me conozco, por si nos sabias quien soy, te aseguro que te la vas a pasar super bien, y más por que hablo del deporte de deportes, el rey de reyes de juegos con pelota, el grandísimo y sagrado futbol. La verdad es que soy un libro muy interesante y te aseguro te llevaras un buen sabor de boca con las reflexiones y datos que te voy a dejar, pero bueno basta de chismecito y vamos para haya.

La historia detrás de mi historia.

Como ya lo dijo mi compita Cometas en el Cielo, la primera impresión es la que cuenta, vente conmigo para descubramos juntos mi historia para que te quedes, ya no te quedes con los dos ojos cuadrados, ahora con uno cuadrado y el otro redondo.

Autor: El nombre de mi papá es Juan Villoro.

Nacionalidad: Yes of course my friend, quien mas para hablar de fútbol que un mexicano. El fútbol corre por nuestras venas al igual que sangre.

Otras obras: Otros hermanitos míos, vendrían siendo El disparo de Argón o El el testigo, todos hijos de mi papá.

Estilo: El estilo de mi papá es muy fresco, pero detalladamente es un estilo de redacción contemporáneo, en el cual el utiliza diferentes recursos textuales.

Mi Nombre: Como ya te lo comente, mi nombre es Dios es redondo.

Año: Nací en el año de 2006, curiosamente nací en el mismo año que ocurrió uno de los mejores mundiales de todos los tiempos, Alemania 2006.

Genero:  Soy un poco especial en este aspecto, pues soy un ensayo, pero acorde al estilo de mi papá.

Subgénero: De acuerdo con este peculiar estilo, dentro de mi están incluidos las características de una crónica periodísticas, pues están fundamentalmente basada mis textos, en datos reales sobre Copas Mundiales, Competiciones Internacionales y la vida de los más grandes futbolistas en la historia.  

Autor: Juan Villoro.

Nacionalidad: Mexicana.

Otras obras: El disparo de Argón, el testigo.

Estilo: Moderno, usando mezclas de distintos recursos.

Nombre: Dios es redondo.

Año: 2006

Genero: Ensayo

Subgénero: Crónica periodística. 

Obra: Como ya te lo mencione mi nombre es Cometas en el Cielo, soy un libro extraordinario, con una excelente trama y que abre tu pensamiento e imaginación para que ilustres en tu mente mi historia, como consejo, se vale llorar hermano.

Año: Fui publicado en el año del 2003, lo sé, ya se me notan un poco los años.

Género: Pertenezco al género narrativo, dentro del subgénero de novela.

Autor: El nombre de mi papá es Khaled Hosseini.

Nacionalidad: Mi papá nació en Kabul, Afganistán pero también cuenta con la nacionalidad estadounidense.

Otros libros: Otro hermanos míos que podría mencionar son: Mil Soles Esplendidos, Y las montañas hablaron y suplica a la mar, la verdad es que somos una familia muy apegada a las raíces de nuestro padre.

Que caracteriza al autor: Mi papá siempre se ha caracterizado por apegar mucho su escritura a sus raíces, le gusta mucho usar terminología de su país y es muy explícito detallando lugares, pensamientos y rasgos físicos de nuestros personajes.

¿Qué es lo que envuelve a Hosseini?

¿Cuál es el contexto del autor?

Una historia mas haya de la amistad.

Mi Point of view.

[herr-surgeon]

Sorry to vent again for the first time in a while but

If anybody here followed me on GITHUB or from my older accounts, you’d be able to see I recently wiped a good part of my GitHub and ImgBB :)

It’s because I got fucking tired of people who j knew personally who ditched me continuing to use my work without credit, without modification and for projects I either did no work on and got my name stapled on, or did almost all the work and got booted with no mention of being the one who worked on it.

i deleted the files for most of my robotics work from my OWN drive because I don’t plan to reuse it, I’d released it for reference and to help others with SPECIFIC conditions and liscencing and I’m so tired of people taking advantage of that, I don’t care if I sound mean lmao. I just need to blow of steam because I’m tired of people forgetting I’m not just a content creation machine and I’m a Fucking person with wants and needs and you guessed it? FLAWS. Some of us mess up, or some of us had our character misrepresented by somebody else’s fuckup. Some of us got accused of shit you didn’t care to ask about. You can’t use my work if you admit to seeing me as less than human. If you see this post and it’s about you, I’m damn sorry but this is my echo chamber ig

#vena moment #venting #Creativity #GitHub #ImgBB #programs #coding #robotics

[scarletwill-sophie]

Y dime que sería de mi

Si hoy a la vida yo le pongo un fin

Dime que harías tu sin mi

Que sería del mañana si ya no estoy aquí

Quien lloraria por mi,

Sufriría sin mi

Responde al final la espera es eterna

Las promesas se rompen

Continuar siempre nos cuesta

Pero todo valdrá la pena

Eso decían

La melancolía hoy se arraiga en mis venas

El filo se convierte en cantante

Cuando el bajo suena fuerte en el parlante

La soledad hoy vuelve a ser mi amante

Esta noche amor nos bañamos en mi sangre

Y escucha esta melodía

Sabe a tristeza mezclada con agonía

La vida es así nunca será sencilla

Nos moldea como quiere, porque somos de arcilla

Hoy te reto a desnudarte

Bajo la luna vente, hazte mi amante

Esta noche seremos eternos

Mi piel, tu piel, calor subiendo

Hoy te invito a ser uno

Mi perfume quedará mezclado con el tuyo

Te prometo ser tu diosa

Si tu me juras eterno tu mundo

Dime que haremos

Si la vida se nos pasa

Cada día nuevo, es morirnos en la cama

La lluvia deja húmeda la almohada

Sábanas blancas

De rojo manchadas

Cuéntame que podría yo hacer

Si el tiempo no se detiene

Ni por un instante

Si el olvido nunca llega tarde

Un mal presagio

Me alcanzará antes de que escriban mi epitafio

Y dime que podría ser peor que esto

La distancia, el dolor, el tiempo

Juegan con nuestros sentimientos

Nos exprimen hasta dejarnos secos

Esta vez no hay más vuelta

El mañana no me espera, la muerte me acecha

Será a mi señal y a mi manera

Bajo la lluvia me encontras, casi ilesa

Y hoy te invito a quererme

A pesar del frío, en mi cuerpo inminente

Por el día será diferente

Por la noche caeré lentamente

Ven escondete en mis brazos

Te ofrezco en mi pecho un refugio cálido

No temas por lo oscuro

Yo seré tu guía en este mundo

[ravenadottir]

hi vena! i have a few angst questions for our tech boy that i’d love to read your take on 👁👁

okay so, what are some ways carl would show that he’s losing interest in his s/o?

how well does carl handle feeling jealous and would he be vocal about it?

how would carl react if he found out his s/o had cheated on him?

how would he react to being stood up on a date? what about being ghosted for let’s say… a week?

this one’s not really angst-y, but besides love island, would carl be more of a show off or private about his relationship?

how would carl react to his s/o saying they don’t like his sense of style and or hobbies? would he try to impress them if he really likes them?

is carl good at comforting his s/o if their mental health isn’t so great?

last one! is carl the type of person who quickly jumps to conclusions? how would he react to his s/o showing lesser interest in him?

HOLY MOTHER OF EVERYTHING THAT IS NERDY.

alright! let's begin!

🖖 what are some ways carl would show that he’s losing interest in his s/o?

diving into work, being forgetful of plans and treating it like it wasn't a big deal, "i'm sorry, i forgot.".

🖖 how well does carl handle feeling jealous and would he be vocal about it?

absolutely not vocal.he's not confrontational and i feel like he pushes everything down until he explodes and commits a serious mistake, like punching someone in the face (the guy that's into his girlfriend, wink wink).

🖖 how would carl react if he found out his s/o had cheated on him?

categorically pissed off out of his mind, not able to process how someone can cheat and betray someone's trust like that. he might struggle to talk about hard subjects but even he would start the conversation if he felt the spark fading. "get out. i'll ask my assistant to drop off your things."

🖖 how would he react to being stood up on a date? what about being ghosted for let’s say… a week?

being stood up is not as bad as not getting a response. he understands someone losing track of time, because it happens to him a lot, but purposely not getting in touch or avoiding him for a week?? "bloody disrespectful!"

🖖 this one’s not really angst-y, but besides love island, would carl be more of a show off or private about his relationship?

private. he doesn't like exposing his relationship because people feel entitled to give their opinions, especially when unsolicited. fighting people's opinions is exhausting in his opinion, so he would rather stay away from social media when it comes to couple's pics or making public appearances too frequently.

🖖 how would carl react to his s/o saying they don’t like his sense of style and or hobbies? would he try to impress them if he really likes them?

at first, perhaps. carl hasn't had much experience with relationships so he sometimes lives in that teen fantasy that you need to have tons of things in common and do everything together, that every single opinion of your s.o matters and that's just fiction. and the bad kind. he's very insecure so it's possible he changes things about himself in hopes to get her approval. later on he might learn he doesn't have to, but... yeah. unfortunately, yeah.

🖖 is carl good at comforting his s/o if their mental health isn’t so great?

not good at comforting per se, not good at what kind of physical touch he should be offering, not good at choice of words. however, carl is a GREAT listener. he's gone through hardship himself so he knows venting is a huge part of the process. and he would say things like "let me know what you need, if it's space, if it's a hug, if it's food... anything! i'll give it to you."

🖖 last one! is carl the type of person who quickly jumps to conclusions? how would he react to his s/o showing lesser interest in him?

he is! his anxiety talks louder at times and leaves him in shambles whenever something slightly different happens. a different text is enough to give him the bad chills.

if the girl is not showing up, texting or talking to him as much he'll find refuge in his work and hobbies. 80/20 to work and hobbies but still, because he can't bring himself to ask her if she's not into him anymore.

#litg carl #litg #love island the game #litg s2 #litg season 2 #queue #headcanons

[ochoislas]

QUIEN HACE LAS PREGUNTAS

Muy lejos, en la entraña de mi corteza tibia, en la maraña negra de venas y de sangre, quien hace las preguntas da media vuelta y ronda: quiere saber por qué tanta gente en la calle...

El muerto que seré se pasma de estar vivo, del gato en sus rodillas y por qué ronronea, del cielo sin razón, del viento descortés que zarandea el olmo, se calma sin motivo.

¿Por qué un potro alazán? ¿por qué un abeto verde? ¿y por qué ese señor que anda sumando cosas, y cuenta: un sol, dos perros, tres picamaderos; que cuenta con sus dedos llenos de prevenciones?

Él cuenta con los dedos, pero pierde en el cómputo la razón de contar, la razón de soñar, la razón de aquí estar, cargado de aprensiones, y de ser un ser vivo sin que lo hayan citado.

*

LE POSEUR DE QUESTIONS

Très loin, dans le dedans de mon écorce chaude, dans le noir embrouillé des veines et du sang, le poseur de questions tourne en rond , tourne et rôde : il veut savoir pourquoi tous ces gens ces passants ?

Le mort que je serai s’étonne d’être en vie, du chat sur ses genoux qui ronronne pour rien, du grand ciel sans raison, du gros vent malappris qui bouscule l’ormeau et se calme pour rien.

Un cheval roux pourquoi ? pourquoi un sapin vert ? Et pourquoi ce monsieur qui fait une addition, qui compte : un soleil, deux chiens, trois piverts, qui compte sur ses doigts pleins de suppositions ?

Il compte sur ses doigts, mais perd dans ses calculs sa raison de compter, sa raison de rêver, sa raison d’être là, tout pesant de scrupules, et d’être homme vivant sans qu’on l’ait invité.

Claude Roy

di-versión©ochoislas

#Claude Roy #literatura francesa #poesía contemporánea #interrogación #identidad #conciencia #perplejidad #fortuito #di-versiones©ochoislas