#its like narcissus looking at his reflection until he dies. except its me looking at hijikata | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kjmsupremacist · 3 years

Note

Felix sweet boy baby angel but Christopher Bang is literally Satan? Idk if you saw but Hyunjin ratted him out on live and said the lyrics for Red Light were toned down. I don’t want to know. I don’t. He was already talking about edging and I don’t want to know. He can keep his Scorpio Venus and his Sag Mars away from me and everyone I love. I would give anything to know his rising if sign. It’s giving Earth but there’s so much air in his chart it’s hard to be sure. 🤖

i am so happy you sent me this ask because i have been looking for an excuse to talk about red lights. I sent leon and margot a seven minute long voice message when i was doing my research for my red lights-inspired fic like that's where i'm at.

First, yes, I saw Hyunjin's comments! that's what chris gets for trying to say hyunjin wrote all the lyrics in the first place. nice try, chris. also, his scorpio venus is SEXY. i won't be taking criticism on this opinion.

Now. Please see under the cut if you want to watch me dissect Red Lights -- both the lyrics and the MV.

so, credit where credit's due--I skimmed this and this reddit posts while I was doing my research.

now. we all know that on the surface, this song is about sex (and specifically bondage and edging—that much is clear). but, ah, how's the saying go? "everything is about sex except for sex, which is about power"? sure.

yeah, it's meant to be sexy. they did that for us and im still not sure if I want to kill them for it or thank them with my life. BUT, as they mentioned in the howl in harmony video, it's primarily a song about obsession.

The first reddit post does a great (albeit kind of aggressive) breakdown of the lyrics, where it becomes really clear that they're talking about the relationship they have with their work and the relationship they have with fans. In essence, the song is about how they want to give their lives and all their time to making more content for fans so that they will continue to receive love from us. The red lights are actually the recording light on a camera (hence the line “set the mic up”).

And so a relationship like the one depicted here is dark and intense, and yes—passionate and driven by love—but ultimately, it consumes itself in the vortex of its own desire, and then peters out into a sort of blank monotony—learned through repetition, a habitual reflex instead of a true reaction.

Then, the second reddit post goes on a deep dive of some of the symbolism seen in the MV—specifically, the use of kink. This is where it gets really fun.

We mostly see Hyunjin in shibari-style bondage. OP posits (and I agree) that he is meant to represent passion without discipline. The shibari ropes are tied messily (and so therefore dangerously) which is perfect for representing how often kink (and other obsessions) can devolve—you plunge in headfirst, but you are directionless except for the insistent tug in your gut that cries for more, more.

Chan, on the other hand, is seen primarily (esp in solo scenes) bound by heavy chains. He represents discipline with no passion. In the Howl in Harmony video, I believe he mentions that after a long day of practice, he'll still find himself in the recording studio, even though he's tired. He does what he has to on autopilot, because he knows he must, because it’s the only thing he feels he can do.

If Hyunjin is mania, then Chan is depression. The chains are GREAT symbolism because this dutiful march towards burnout and beyond is, as the lyrics suggest, stemming from a desire to keep receiving love (from fans)—that if you just work hard enough then no one will ever leave you. You wish to bind the person (or people) you love to you, but in the end the bonds only weigh you down.

So then the part where they’re tied together, back to back, at the end, shows when passion and discipline come into balance. And that’s creation for the love of creation while still maintaining a respect for yourself, the art, and your audience. (or idk. maybe they just thought we'd like to see them tied to one another. and they were right).

It's also fun because while we see Hyunjin and Chan both assume positions of domination and submission, it's clear Chan is meant to be the “dominant force” here (hence discipline). The reason we do see instances of Hyunjin in power (choking Chan, standing over him on the table) is because any somewhat healthy d/s relationship involves first the surrender of power. The dom is only perceived to be in power because the sub first relinquishes it them. So. You know.

I will say I'm not sure what to say about the edging theme (BNKSJDF) besides the obvious—almost giving you what you want, but not quite.

And finally, this is not part of either of those two reddit posts, but I was ENTHRALLED by the use of mirror and mirror-esque imagery throughout the MV and in the choreo. I love mirrors as a symbol so we're going to talk about that, too.

First and most obviously, it may be a bit on the nose. In art, mirrors and reflections are often used to show that there is a deeper meaning than what is clear on the surface. So this might have just been hyunchan going "hey! it's not just about sex!"

but I think there's more to it than that. Mirrors are often used as a vessel of truth—in some Chinese myths, for example, mirrors can repel demons, as they will show a demon’s true form. Or see the Little Mermaid—though Ursula managed to change her outward appearance, she was caught in her lie when another character (sebastian, i think?) saw her reflection in the mirror.

Additionally, one’s reflection used to be thought to contain one’s soul—which is why mirrors were covered in the home of person who had just passed, so they would not be trapped as a ghost in the world of the living.

For this reason, mirrors are often also considered dangerous. Think of Narcissus, for a start, who fell in love with his own reflection and sat at the water's edge, pining, until he fucking died. Or consider the following quote (which I love) from Fernando Pessoa:

“Man shouldn’t be able to see his own face – there’s nothing more sinister. Nature gave him the gift of not being able to see it, and of not being able to stare into his own eyes. Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face. And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself. The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.”

We use mirrors to watch ourselves watching ourselves (and the Margaret Atwood who lives in our heads cries “male fantasies, male fantasies! You are you own voyeur!”). We perform for the mirror—often what we see in the mirror is not actually how we are seen by others! We think we may find truth there, when in reality it is a distortion. Ties itself up really nicely, I think.

In any case, this really goes well with the theme of obsession in the song—staring in the mirror asking, what do others see? What is wrong about me? What can I do better? The idea of looking in the mirror to seek what others see, both positive and negative, is common throughout. And I think their use of mirrored choreo (esp when it seems like one of them is the reflection!!), as well as mirror placement on the set of the mv, and ESPECIALLY the lovely bit at the end where they both stand staring carefully at their own reflections, all work to drive that theme home.

and i don't even know how to touch on all the color symbolism (when it changes between color and b&w?? the palette being overwhelmingly yellow and red and black???), or the lens filters (warping, blurring, etc), or the way they superimposed pieces of the video on top of other pieces, or the use of that one stark white background—without writing a fucking dissertation (and this is already a ridiculously long post) so i'll just stop here.

This is all to say, maybe what they meant was that the lyrics were a lot more aggressive about these themes and they were asked to tone them down to keep it neutral.

or maybe they're just sexy, sexy motherfuckers and their managers bonked them on the head and sent them to horny jail.

#obviously that mirror quote is a little stupid but at the same time i do think it's so real. like so real.#anyway this is very long but I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS.#this is what i was doing a few afternoons ago.... just compiling this.#just... meta hours with xiami #stray kids #bang chan #hyunjin #red lights #mail #🤖 anon

28 notes · View notes

fortunebuoyed · 3 years

Text

Daniel/ @sittimoranimiinterfectorem‘s Armand, mention of past Claudmand, 3.5k, beta read.

The music chasing after his fleeing feet paints Armand an altogether joyous thing. As he dances through the corridor, its high windows setting the streetlights to illuminate his hair like a blaze, the Vampire seems more a child than Daniel has ever seen him. Meandering after him, Daniel is led past a dozen eras, the Caliphate blurring into the Romanesque only a doorway apart, past a hallway offering glimpses of Velazquez and Goya standing at odds across from one another. This Spanish gallery offers a myriad of delights, if the pair have the time and inclination to discover them.

There are better museums in Spain, though. The terrible pair had not traveled so far just to settle on a speck of locked up art for its own sake. All that matters tonight is a single painting tucked away somewhere in a corner of the Renaissance exhibit. Peering again at the leader of their expedition, Daniel realizes too late that Armand has been talking, babbling about the piece they now seek. Words flicker through his pounding head, ‘furs’ and ‘silks’ and every decadent luxury that is a dozen lifetimes removed from Autumn 1982. Pulling his faded denim tighter around his frame, the mortal fishes in his pocket for the painkillers that will banish the previous night from the present..

The headaches come so often of late, spurred by a poor diet and endless adventures across his nights. In fact, the artisan of his migraines proceeds with an airy laugh through the empty gallery, offering a little spin of delight. These games always bring him joy. The sound of his laugh echoes inside Daniel’s beleaguered skull as he takes the pills dry. The things he does for love.

Armand vanishes through a doorway in a flash, before his name can properly form on the other’s lips. He calls it regardless, stopping adjacent to the path that had dragged the vampire away from him. “Armand--”

“I’ll catch up,” comes the reply. Violet eyes raise to study the placard beside him -- Romanticism. The soft lines and endless layers of the style seem ill-suited to the artist’s tastes, but Daniel proves grateful for the chance to let the pills percolate in his bloodstream anyway. Carelessly, he hounds the corridor for an out, ever obedient to the directions the sweet-faced woman at the desk offered him. Twenty minutes to closing, she advised, Castilian accent rounded out with matronly care. The words had chased him, Armand already tugging him along on their great quest.

As she had said, the Renaissance collection stood to the left of the endless stroll, nestled into the furthest corner of the first floor. He cannot fault the layout. The collection is worth the wait. His steps echo across the parquet flooring, shadow looming across the pale marble figure that stands guard over the paintings lining the wall. Harsh shadows and demure womanhood paint a fine enough contrast to soothe his aches. Snippets of frescos hang liberated above his head. He thinks, it is a pity Armand did not follow. Whether he feels at home or not doesn’t much matter. The exhibit is a feast for the senses, the kind that Armand’s breed so adores.

The boy ancient has a wall to himself, just as promised, his bare ass peeking out from between a silk-draped divan and the vibrant fur of some golden beast. The modern Narcissus stares spellbound into the mirror set before him, reflecting features that have remained unchanged in the long centuries since. Marius was -- is? -- a master of his craft, and the appearance is so accurate as to set the human desperate to touch the canvas, as if there will be flesh against his touch rather than pigment.

He is in love with himself, Daniel decides, studying the awed expression that stares back from the mirror. Scoffing, he digs his fists into the pockets of his jeans, fleeing the rooms in totality. There is nothing left in the display to compare, and besides, their twenty minutes is almost up. If Armand is to discover this portrait of his unending youth, then he must be led swiftly to it. He is not, in fact, catching up. Abandoning the Renaissance without a glance towards the neighboring Gothic and Neoclassical rooms, Daniel tells himself that he must still be a little drunk, that the effigies seem too lifelike through the door out to the sculpture garden.

He has grown too accustomed to marble flesh and unsettling gazes. Yes, the statues appear alive to him now, but never in the way that Louis has described. His nails form perfect half-moons around his palms.

Armand’s stillness is so complete that, for the briefest moment, Daniel mistakes him for part of the collection. The redhead has not made it past the first room, stagnant in appraisal of a piece. It’s not like him. The terrible, unmoving moment seems wrong to tread upon, wronger still to permit. Rocking to and fro on his feet, the mortal casts a glance about the collection, looking at the pastel displays of nature and portraiture. Among this ephemeral flood, what can there be to possess his companion so? Slowly, cautiously, he approaches the other. How long has it been since I’ve hesitated with him?

Her dress is carmine, her hair a dark coil of curls braided around the crown of her head. The otherwise pleasant expression stares defiant out towards her audience, night-black eyes fierce despite the distance. Settling beside Armand, he recognizes the style immediately. The former stands there a long, long while, studying her features, his own brushwork. Daniel comes to settle beside him, feeling ceaselessly awkward for intruding. The apparent youth is no longer Narcissus staring into his own abyss. This face is a stranger.

Unnamed Mulatto, the little gold placard reads.

“Who was she?” Daniel whispers.

“They were the last human I fell in love with,” comes the confession, comes the breath catching in Daniel’s throat. He studies her, then the chain of gold around her neck, clutches the locket against his shirt.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, because what else is he meant to say? This dark woman, frightfully made, defiant even in facsimile, gives him little else to go on. There is something discordant in that face which makes him a liar, her soft smile at odds with her sharp stare.

“You should have seen them swordfight.”

“I didn’t think women could do that back then.”

And he's already thinking, what in me will you admire after I am gone? He studies those dark eyes, which seem so lifeless to him, a dark abyss in a sea of white, a grave come to swallow him. She is dead. He knows that as surely as his own name.

“They weren't a woman. But at the same time they were.”

Daniel doesn't understand it. He can't, in the parlance of the era, except that she -- they -- are singular in Armand's eyes. Or perhaps they make a matching set, he and this lost muse. Her warm oval face, offset by the chill of his realizations, seems unfathomably more abhorrent in the ensuing silence. Her mortality is his. It sours in his pit.

He doesn’t recognize Armand’s absence, his searching around for something sharp enough that he could rectify some flaw in the presentation. All Daniel registers is the horrific scraping as the vampire scratches their name into the placard: Claudia di Montoya. The spell breaks. Autumn 1982 rushes back into focus. Inhaling, Daniel discovers that the room is suddenly too hot for him. Sliding out of his jacket, he forces a new purpose into the air.

“Right. So. we have less than ten minutes, if that, before security picks us up, and I have to show you where I finally found your ass in this gallery--”

Bloodless fingers trace the new marks carved into gold, lingering over the syllables of Claudia, brown eyes boring into their own. The hand drops, and Armand drags himself up from the depths of memory. “Alright, Daniel. Lead the way.”

He knows that he must have done so, that they stand studying the canvas depicting a then human boy. He knows that Armand does not react with his commonplace amusement, his rundown of the events leading up to the pieces creation. This is not like Naples, or Prague, or Ontario, where they have found similar depictions of his life as a muse. The most the immortal offers is a slow smile, a hushed “There it is,” and Daniel understands very well what the difference is between Naples, Prague, Ontario, and Leon.

Why are they always named Claudia?

The question hounds him on their escape, down the city streets, into the bar where Daniel carves out a small meal of hot tapas. The two of them remain quiet among the ebb and flow of locals seeking a snack between dinner, and it’s so unlike Armand. It’s unlike Daniel, too, to go without his customary drink. Armand has dragged him around the world so he could be a part of it, but he sits consumed, contemplative. In this walled world of smoke and voices, a dozen languages flowing like wine, Daniel imagines the other a world way. In his own mind, the vampire must still be in another room, far from Venice, long before this bar. She dances up to him, crimson swirling around her ankles as the band plays a waltz through a gilded palace. She’s staring his keeper down like a shark, that awkward smile a threat, and like any proper storybook villainess, she devours her target whole. Skin, blood, curls, and lace, Armand is engulfed into her, a wooden puppet fed into flames. Daniel holds his glass all the tighter.

That pensive mood fails to pass as they leave. There are no further stops along their walk to whatever passes for home, the rented room in a crumbling piece of ancient architecture. Daniel decides that he is tired of history, though he turns his question over until it is worn smooth.

It is the sole question he can tolerate. It is the only one without a clear or meaningful answer, and if he dares to branch out from it, he’ll be heading straight for bedlam. The overlap of names can mean nothing but coincidence. The golden chain, the choice of words, the melancholy that has settled inside of his jailer, these things carry far greater meaning. Thoughts, and his desperate attempts to block them, consume him so deeply that he hardly notices Armand slipping away when the moon is at his highest. In his absence, Daniel finds little to do but lean against the worn metal lining the balcony and smoke.

Armand returns, but not alone. Like an alchemist, he has gathered his tools, ready to perform some magic on the task he has chosen. He places the late beloved upon the desk with such care, the rags and chemicals he has brought along burning at mortal senses. His paints and brushes are at the ready, and Daniel feels fire build in his chest. Uncaring, the other begins his careful undertaking, hardly needing light to go about his restoration.

Daniel hates it, actually. hates this memento mori lurking under this rented roof, hates that this is all he will be one day. In another hundred years, will Armand point at some ash-haired man in a gallery and say to someone else 'That was Daniel, I loved him very much, he was a fool, but he was beautiful when he was in his right mind' ? His latest cigarette burns too close to his fingers. He drops it, careless, to the streets below, staring at the tiny, irritated mark it has left behind. Nothing is said, but the night grows cold, and his tactical retreat is pyrrhic. There is warmth within, yes, but also the ghost Armand chooses to set between them.

Shutting the door to the world outside, the pair become locked into that harsh company, the spectral Claudia with her hands around her lover’s throat.

Slumping into what passes for his chair, the human passes the next hour in silence, so pointedly ignoring the work that it consumes his every thought. Dexterous digits dance along the desk, seeking oils, seeking brushes, seeking that which will return his dead beloved to him. Daniel’s own hands twitch uselessly against the arms of his seat. Here, he is powerless, less than a thought, less than a long-dead stranger. The silence is broken at last by the devil himself.

“They never believed me, about any of it. I told them everything, Vampires, my past, and Claude always thought I was lying through my teeth. Even faced with proof, they blamed my theatricality and my staff’s skill with stagecraft. It never broke them, the truth, not like others.” Fondness colors his voice in spite of it. For every way in which this person might spite him, his voice is heavy with reverence.

Daniel must ask, in that soft, hesitant voice, “Is that why you never turned them?”

“No.” Armand does not pause as he speaks, a slip of a brush still swirling against the canvas. “They had a life. They loved someone else, their princess, named Haydee. They had children eventually. They had a human life, and I wouldn't take them away from that.”

How gracious, then, for the bloodsucker to show restraint with those that desired it. He’d never done a damn thing for those that actually want anything from him, after all. “Good for them,” Daniel says, and he reaches for his cigarettes, lights one. Standing, he resigns himself to the curiosity that colors his distaste, clears the distance between them to study Armand's undertaking so far. There's so much yellow paint. and he thinks, I am here, and I love you, only you. What does a human life have to offer me? But he simply exhales, silent, as smoke hangs in the air between them.

If he loves himself in death as he did in humanity, then Daniel need only reflect the vampire as clearly and coolly as Marius’ mirror. If he loved another and let them go, then there are no assurances between them, no safety net to catch Daniel as he struggles towards death or immortality. The architect of his salvation could choose to damn him instead, wholly untouched by his plight. He imagines the pitiless creature before him pristine as the white button up clinging to his form, absent of any trace of paint. The palette of Daniel’s desire for him, for everything he is, might never reach him.

Armand must feel the emotions rolling off him, but he ignores it in favor of continuing to fix the painting. The restorers cannot have ruined the original too deeply for as quickly as he rights their wrongs. The whole of his focus narrows to knifepoint over the abyss that had so captured his companion, which remain defiant in the dim of their quarters. Daniel watches her stare blaze to life under Armand's steady hands, gilded and bright. People have always spoken of his own eyes, like violets. Is this what the other likes best, the fire in eyes that give the rest of the world pause?

Once the golden irises are right, the master artist goes to refining the rest. The changes are small, but somehow urgent. Armand moves furiously to make the portrait as it should be, as it was originally. The barest twitch of his fingers transforms the image into something greater. Red curls slip free of the scrunchie that bunches his hair to a low bun against his spine, turning the vampire to a mess as he keeps at his artistic endeavors.

His lover might have kissed that pallid neck and drawn him from his efforts, were Daniel any more forgiving of this intruder and how Armand forces her into their life.

“She's not smiling anymore,” Daniel notes at last, when the change is finalized. Her face pulls into harmony as her mouth turns to a hard line. “Was that her mood then, or yours now?”

There’s age in the way he sighs, true age. For a moment, Daniel imagines himself catching a glimpse of what Armand should have been, had the chance to grow and dedicate himself to his first talents. Hunched over his workspace, world narrowing to his subject alone, the youth becomes a master. Daniel hates this, too, this thought that would mean his master’s death, nothing other than a historical footnote. He deserves more than that. He deserves more than this momentary obsession that tears at whatever trust the two have rebuilt in the months since Daniel’s return.

“They're not smiling because someone dared to touch their portrait that was not my hands. It's what they would want.”

Those hands dance smoothly across the stolen art, ensuring his vision return to the world. He must not want this ancient Lenore to return from her sepulchre to damn him for the mistakes of other artisans. Dead is dead, the mortal knows, and they are owed nothing. When had Armand last spared a thought for this loved and lost before the museum so rudely reminded him of her existence? She doesn’t belong here, this poorly lit room with yellowed wallpaper, because it is theirs, and she is worth far more than the entire building.

“Mm,” Daniel hums, and doesn't have much else to say. In spite of his mood, there is something riveting in this, actually, watching the master at work. He had been born far too late for the Palazzo, for the golden days when the boy in front of him assisted in his Master’s artistic pursuits. He’s only ever been left with the aftermath of that golden age, the pieces scattered across museum displays and private collections the world over. This should be a great gift, watching his lover keep at his ancient craft. But he's still so bitter about the shape his night has taken.

“What pendant is she wearing?” he asks, once he is properly braced for the possibility that the locket around his neck belongs to a cycle. He had once thought it was his own, a gift passed between lovers that said whatever else his keeper was, he was protective of what counted as his.

The other offers a comfortingly familiar shrug that sets his shoulders colliding with his ears, saying simply, “Some pendant. I don’t know. Perhaps a piece Haydee gave them.”

Daniel relaxes. Comforted, he steps away from their shared obsession, slumps into his chair, snuffs out his cigarette on its upholstered arm and flicks it towards a pile of books. Dragging a hand through his hair, he concedes there exist small mercies in Armand's presence.

He does not know what time passes in the euphoria of that small victory. He keeps time in the fact that it has been long enough for him to get lost in his thoughts, for the night to grow ever smaller. Whether it is minutes or hours later, Armand finishes his first phase of restoration and throws himself into Daniel’s orbit. The former’s body fits perfectly against his, straddling him, pushing him backwards with insistent hands as kisses the warmth from Daniel’s lips.

“You and Claude are not the same. For one, you love me back. For two, they are long dead. I loved them once, but that love is in the past. I only wish to honor them now by making sure their portrait is in hands that will care for it properly. I'll send it off to the Montoya estate in Sardinia once it's finished being restored.”

The mortal lays there, dispassionate, as he listens to these assertions. and what can he possibly say to that? God, his lover thinks he's jealous. If he compares himself to this fallen woman, it isn't in self-pity -- it is to outdo her, to look at where she failed and he might yet succeed. But he allows Armand to kiss him, kiss his lips cold as marble, and says nothing of how he refuses to be another portrait to be repaired. His mind is made. All that’s left is to make a plan of it.

Armand keeps up the kissing, down to his neck, to play at biting only to merely drag his teeth along pale skin. His hand reaching down to rub Daniel through his pants, falling into a pattern so familiar that it would be boring were it any less fulfilling. He recognizes what Armand thinks, mind gift or no. Perhaps sex will get his mind off of all this.

He lets Armand believe that it will. Lets himself give in, already deciding to make his stand, yet another escape. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the sun is up. Perhaps taking the unfortunate girl with him. It will be cruel, beyond any attempt he’s made in the past, to deprive the vampire of his companionship and a newfound project. It must be done, however, to speak what cannot be conveyed properly in words. There will be a statement in this even if he does fall again, consumed by the need for Armand, for his slender arms and white-hot blood.

He won't be content to be art.

#let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ]#cutting each other without even knowing [ DANIEL X ARMAND ]#heaven sends and heaven takes [ claude & armand ]#drabbletagtba #this is the first longform oneshot i have written in.... years.

5 notes · View notes

readgreat-thinkbig-blog · 5 years

Text

The Echoing Tale (The Story of Echo)

This is an original short story, with several hand-drawn illustrations. It aims to help you discover the interesting cultural meaning behind English vocabulary, and learn more about the source of magic of English language.

“O, I am so in love with you… please come out! Come to me!”

She heard that wistful moaning again: his voice over-flown with longing, he called out to the water, just as he had done yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before… She tried to track time, but quickly lost count. He had stayed here too long—so long that she almost forgot how her life had been before he came.

Yet she remembered the day he came—a flash of a bow drawn, a swish of an arrow shot, a yelp of frustrated effort, the shadow of a lithe figure, the light of an exhausted smile—vague memories flickered like dim tatters, ragged shreds of blurry remembrance scattered across her foggy mind. But at times, some pieces flared up in brilliant sparkles—and she caught them before they faded forlornly away—such as the moment she was struck by him and had since then fallen helplessly and hopelessly in love: when he beamed and declared, joyously, “O, I love you!”

The violent force of reminiscence battered her heart; for an instant she was knocked out of breath. Bitterness welled up inside her, and she had to bite her lips to damher burning tears. Then coldness gripped her in its iron fist, twisting and squeezing her entire body until she was shaking terribly, in immense, desolate grief.

She collapsed onto the ground, sobbing, eyes stinging from countless days of agony. She loved him so, so dearly; but he seemed ignorant of it.

He cared about nothing, but himself.

His never left the pond side; his eyes never moved from the image of himself reflected in the watery mirror. Every word spoken by him was about his love for himself; so was every sigh, every smile.

He pined for his own self.

Narcissus…! She wanted to cry out, and yank his attention away from that cursed water. But when she opened her mouth, there was only a hollow, wheezing sound, void of substance, straining to create meaning.

She couldn’t speak.

How many times had she forgotten her curse, and how many times had she been reminded of the painful reality of it yet again, after her vain struggle to talk to her lover? Narcissus didn’t love her; he was repulsed by her presence. And he didn’t even bother to know her.

She thought of the disgust in his eyes. Such revulsion! Malice glittered like blades of obsidian, dangerous and sharp; dark flames of arrogance breathed into loathing, casting interweaving shadows of condescension and repugnance. His contemptuous dismissal of her entirety was imbued with such intense abhorrence that it cut wounds into her simple little soul: those wounds never healed, re-opening again, and again, upon his sole concern for himself.

He had screamed, “leave me! Leave me alone!” She had been exceedingly puzzled, wondering at his stormy complexion, the way his eyes bore into hers, and those maddeningly flashes warning of malignity and spite swirling inside. She remembered thinking, foolishly, of how Zeus’ lightning bolts must resemble the raging wrath in his eyes, extremely menacing, yet astoundingly beautiful. O, she had thought in admiration, how he looks like a god!

He roared again: “Go away, you detestable creature! I don’t love you! Do you hear me?”

Then her tiny heart shattered. Shards of broken hope crashed within her body, slashing at her flesh, hamstringing her. Her senses were cut dull; she was shocked into numbness, rendered immobile as if another curse was cast upon her. Perhaps she had been dead ever since: her will to survive had withered away like wilted flowers.

But she still loved him, despite his cruelty, his ego, his obsession of his own image. It is her own fault, she thought, to mistake his words addressed to himself as some profession to her of his adoration.

No, a damned creature like her doesn’t deserve his noble feelings; so what a wishful thinking it is to deem herself ever fortunate to secure the noblest feeling of all—love!

She thought of the day her fortune failed her. She recalled Hera’s wrath—the Queen of the gods was so furious at her tricks that she was shivering with rage. Her eyes burning with indignation, the goddess shrieked: “You! You detestable creature! How dare you! To lie! For Zeus!”

She had been grovelling at her feet, too terrified to look up. But the aura of power and godly strength around Hera was shimmering in golden waves of energy, clashing at her with horrifying force. She felt herself being clamped against the cold, hard ground.

Hera paused. Slowly, she said: “I will bestow a gift upon you, Echo.”

She was stunned. But before she sighed with relief and thanked the goddess, Hera chimed: “You shall never speak your own words again; you can still speak, but only in repetition of others—your companions shall despise your strangeness, so one by one, they shall leave you. You shall die, in your own time; but surely you shall perish in loneliness and regret.”

A blinding light flashed; then Hera was gone.

She had since spoken others’ words, and everything Hera had promised came true.

Except for death.

“O, I am so in love with you… please come out! Come to me!”

Narcissus’ voice cracked, his face lined with pain. In tears, she observed him—his face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, his expression excruciating. O, her only lover, what kind of spell had left him in such a trance of self-obsession, and such folly of self-love!

She watched him crumple to the ground.

She rushed to his side; but it was too late—Death had taken him away.

She wept silently, too frail to make a sound. Her lover was dead. Why, she asked Death, why have you not taken me?

Something was glimmering beside her. She lifted her tear-streaked hands, and choked at the sight—she couldn’t comprehend what she saw—Narcissus was dissolving; his body was crumbling into thousands of shining star-dust.

He disappeared completely. Soundless. Traceless.

She sobbed again.

A tiny flower sprouted from the spot where he had knelt and died—a white bud, bursting into pure, startling beauty—a snow-like bloom starred with gold patterns at the centre.

Trembling, she cuddled the flower, murmuring, “O, Narcissus! O, my love!”

Then Echo fell to the ground, holding the flower to her heart.

Exhaustion coursed through her body; and she prayed, against all hope: Mercy, Hera! Let me have him…

She lay on the grass, her flesh disintegrating into star-dust.

Finally, she thought, smiling, I could stand by his side…

In Oxford Dictionary, the word ‘echo’ means ‘the repetition in structure and content of one speaker's utterance by another’. Repeating what others have said is exactly the curse Echo had to suffer in endurance of Hera’s wrath. That’s why the word means as such.

Meanwhile, the word ‘narcissism’ means ‘excessive interest in or admiration of oneself and one’s physical appearance’. Narcissus, who loved his own reflection in the water, died of unfulfilled passion which consumed his entire body and soul, is the origin of the word ‘narcissism’. The self-obsessed behaviour of Narcissus gives the term ‘narcissism’ powerful meaning.

I took inspiration from the retelling of this myth by Richard Riordan in his book, ‘The Mark of Athena’. Echo’s unrequited love for Narcissus was tragic enough, not to mention her fate being doomed long before her encounter with Narcissus, her sad story already penned down at the moment when Hera cursed her.

Echo’s story (particularly the part about Narcissus) is familiar to many of you, however, I’ve been quite unsatisfied with how Greek Mythology is often told from an omniscient perspective—because subtlety of feelings and complexity of emotions are usually lost as a result of this story-telling technique. Therefore, I decided to render this old tale in a new way, animating these characters by exposing their minds.

I’ve chosen to write in the viewpoint of Echo, since I find her more interesting than Narcissus (forgive me, but this guy seems only able to care about his own self). Moreover, I used flashbacks to insert important pieces of information to aid readers’ understanding: Echo’s first encounter with Narcissus and her falling madly in love; and Echo’s curse due to Hera’s rage.

I hope that it’s been an enjoyable read for you—you learn more about Greek Mythology, and about the origins of English words (and their root words). Above all, I hope that you could find English, as a language that bustles with life and continues growing,interesting and rich. It’s a mode of communication, yes, but it also contains so much cultural meaning—it’s a collection of the most powerful and amazing imaginative ideas in human history.

Learning English, therefore, is not solely about familiarising yourselves with grammatical rules and linguistic structures; it’s more about sensing the pulsing energy of the language, loving the breath of it, enjoying everything it pertains to.

English is lovely, and that’s why I love learning it.

I hope you enjoy my writing.

#greekmyth #pjo #greek quotes #greek posts #greek #story #short story #literature #classic

3 notes · View notes

doloresrojo · 6 years

Text

If I answer your call - A conversation with Hades

She kept driving, she was supposed to go home instead she kept driving. She couldn’t let her family to see her like this, wild emotions and drowned screams. She couldn’t explain why she felt like this, what triggered it. She was lucky to be able to hold it until work was over, now she just couldn’t anymore.

She remembered a place where one of her friends went to be alone; a clearing near the airport. When she was like this, she felt that she was an ongoing danger behind the wheel and to go to the airport you had to take the highway; regardless, she set her course before she had more time to think about it. She needed to go somewhere safe, right now home was not safe.

It didn’t take her long to find the place. It was not beautiful, it was the beginning of autumn and the grass was rugged and brown, it made a crunching sound where she stepped. Trash could be found around, beer cans, cigarettes, wrappers, she wouldn’t be surprised if she found needles or used condoms. It did offer a lot of cover though, the trees that surrounded the place were tall, some of them looked grim without their foliage; still it was quiet and lonely.

It may not have been wise to do it, but she went deeper into the forest. At the moment, being still was impossible to her, the electric feel that was going through her body was too overwhelming, breathing wouldn’t help she knew and sitting down or lying down would only make her feel worst. As she walked she let the air fill her lungs, the further she went the air got fresher and it carried the characteristic smell of wet ground, it was chilly too but she didn’t mind, it soothed her.

The feeling was gone once her legs couldn’t go any longer; a sadness so vast and deep took over her when she stopped moving. A torrent of tears came down her face and she dropped to the ground. It had been a long time since she had let herself cried like this: letting her tears to fall freely and sobbing so hard, the way little kids sob when they truly feel anguish. Tears were good, tears were therapeutic, but it was not enough. Please, she thought, please somebody help me, anyone. If you can hear me, please, tell me what to do, tell me where to go, I cannot go like this anymore… Lord of shadows, someone, help me.

For a moment she went numb, her crying subsided and her mind was silent. It was so sudden and so absorbing, the emptiness, that she was startled when she came back to herself. She realized that she had gone too far from where she was, the deep side of the forest, where no one used to go, where it might be too dangerous to go, especially alone. She should be afraid, she should go back immediately, but she wasn’t afraid and she didn’t want to leave; this part of the forest was not like the clearing at all. The grass was emerald green and fresh, there was no naked tree, some of the sky was visible through the cracks, it was past dusk and it made the place look blue without the moonlight. Blue, green and brown, those were the colors surrounding her. Except for the sound of the airplanes the clearing was quiet, but this, this was something else; not a sound could be heard; an owl could be heard but even its howl was strange. She touched the grass and found it wet with dew, she saw something a few steps before her and she crawled to see what it was. Flowers. Some of them had six petals and a yellow center with an orange edge and others had also six petals but with a burgundy or violet line in their middle and filaments with a brown tip. I know this flowers. This were not common flowers of the area, she was sure of that. Then she remembered. She had read about them, seen them in pictures for she had never seen them in real life. One of the flowers was what it came after a young, arrogant, beautiful young man was cursed by a goddess to fall in love with his own reflection. Narcissus. And the other ones could be found in a place where ordinary people was sent to spend the eternity after they died. Asphodel.

The shadow of a man appeared obscuring the flowers. She turned around but there was no one behind her.

“If I answer your call, do you think you’ll be able to hear me?” Said a deep male voice.

She looked back to the flowers and the shadow was still there. She had asked for an answer but she realized know that she didn’t expect one. She was terrified now, she asked someone for help and someone had come, but who? Despite of her fear she found herself saying:

“I will, I promise”

The shadow lifted from the earth making her crawl backwards. When it touched the ground slowly a man started to materialize. Young, no more than thirty, tall, pale as a phantom, golden eyes, lean but strong, no bear. He was holding a black scepter that had two silver horns at the top, he was wearing black trousers, a long sleeve purple shirt with silver and gold embroidery, a black wool cape falling to his ankles, black boots that where so polished that they look like they were made of obsidian, and a simple silver circlet decorated with sapphires was his crown. The only thing that surprised her about his image was his hair, it was silver not black, short and spiky. Nevertheless she knew who she was beholding: Hades, Lord of the Underworld. Mesmerized, she sat on her knees in a sign of submission and respect. She looked up.

“But, how can you? When your heart is so closed” When she had answered him she did it with steadiness in her voice, but she didn’t really feel it and there was no way she could hide her heart from him. She was looking at his face and it was hard to read, suddenly she felt that it was improper to look at him so openly.

“I will open it” She said looking to the ground.

“Look at me and rise” He said, gently but firmly.

“Haven’t you tried before?”

“This time will be different. I will try harder” Tears were coming back and her voice had gone high pitch with desperation.

“You still haven’t figured it out, have you?” He looked at her like she was a toddler instead of an adult woman.

“I don’t know what you mean”

“Oh my poor child. It is not about just trying, it is about flowing, to let go, to feel freely and with pride. You’ve been so focused on surviving, on pretending and hiding that you have forgotten what is like to be. You’re always on edge, with your guard up, shutting everybody away, you didn’t even realized that you did it with you as well”

She knew what he was talking about. She was the kind of person that wore her heart on her sleeve and she did everything she could to protect it, and as a result she was now suspicious, afraid and extremely cautious.

“I… I didn’t know what else to do”

“I know you don’t see it like this, but you did the best you could. Now it is time to be brave and do what you must”

“What is that?”

“I will help you but that doesn’t mean I will give you all the answers, especially when you already know some of them. I know this seems rough, but tell me, if I give you everything that you ask, just like that, what will you actually learn? How will you know what you are capable of? How far can you go? Like I said, I will help you, I will guide you but you will have to work with me”

“I understand. But I fear I am not strong enough” Her body was tense and she was fisting her hands so tight that her knuckles were white and her nails were digging in her palms. She was trying not to cry in front of him. Her mind was in overdrive; guilt, shame, anger, sadness, hopelessness were gathering around at the same moment and she couldn’t scape them. A heavy weight had settle upon her chest making it hard to breathe.

“This affliction won’t let me” She managed to say.

He took a step closer and put his hand on her shoulder. Being touch by a god was a surreal experience; she could feel his temperature trough her clothes, he was cold, but it was not the kind of cold that made you flinch, it was the kind that made your body feel alive and awake. It was said that mortals couldn’t see gods in their real form, if they did they were consumed by their glory immediately, like Semele, Dionysius mortal mother who asked Zeus to show her his true form; Zeus unable to deny her request obliged her and she was killed by his divine splendor. Whether this was Hades true form or not she could not say, but there was no denying that this was a touch of a superior being.

“Let me ask you something. If I tell you that I could take it away, your affliction, what you think holds you down, but in return you will lose a part of who you are, a part so fundamental of your essence that without it you will not be the same and certainly not the person you are meant to be. I am not saying that pain makes someone especial, original or important; everybody goes through it, it is part of life. But when you know how to deal with it, how to move on and learn from it, make peace with it, pain makes you stronger, wiser and kinder. I don’t need to tell you this, you have known it for a long time: Nothing that is of actual worth comes out easily”

For a long time she had wondered what kind of person she would be if this affliction wasn’t a part of her persona. She hated it, but it was true that it had also given her some things in return; it gave her empathy, one of her virtues was to be able to see things from other people perspective. Kindness, for it was not hard to her to let others find solace in her. Her depression sometimes had a mind of its own and it could be suffocating, but every time it threatened to swallow her whole she tamed it and to be able to master something so dark and insidious was not an easy task. So she nod at him.

“I want you to say it”

“It is time for me to accept who I am. With all the good and the bad. And it is also time to forgive myself”

He nodded and smiled, satisfied.

“Good. Give me your hand” He extended his right hand and she couldn’t help to marvel at it, it looked like a writer’s hand, smooth, with long elegant fingers, no veins could be seen underneath his ivory skin and his palm held no lines. She reached out and as soon as her hand touched his she breathed in and tears came down of her eyes. The oppressing feeling on her chest was gone, she felt serene, clear, and her mind and soul were in sync for once.

“Soon you will be starting a new journey and for that you need composure” He prophesized, while still holding her hand.

“I see” She said in bewilderment.

“Don’t be afraid. You have everything that is need to conquer this world and I will be guiding you no matter what” He lifted his scepter and pounded the ground twice, emitting an echo so profound that even the trees swayed. Beside him a black puppy appeared.

“Name her as you wish, she will be your companion and support, nurture her and she will give you love in return. Every time that you stray out of your way she will lead you back, you must trust her”

She picked the puppy and it licked her hand. She looked like a Labrador and her eyes were yellow, similar like his. She laughed, a metaphor had just come to life.

“So now my thoughts will be the dark dog that companies me instead of the black cloud upon my head”

“Exactly. It won’t be easy, sometimes you will want to give up. But no matter what keep going. When it is time for you to be taken to the Underworld I want to send you to Elysium not the Asphodel meadows”

He lifted his scepter and put the sharp horns on her forehead.

“I bless you my child, for now on you are under the protection of Hades, Lord of the Underworld, the dead and wealth. I will look after you and those you hold dear, I will protect your household and secure your prosperity, the only thing I ask in return is your loyalty and your cooperation. Do you accept?”

“I do” Never in her life had she felt so certain.

He removed the scepter and nodded.

“It is done then, farewell”

“Wait my Lord. I thank you with all my heart, you can’t imagine how much. I don’t mean to offend you or question you, I just want to know. Why me? Why did you answer my prayer?”

He simply shrugged and said:

“Not a lot of mortals call me, and when they do I answer” When he vanished he took everything with him; the enchanted part of the forest, the flowers, she was back in the clearing, the black puppy with the unusual yellow eyes was the only proof that everything had been real. She went back to her car and set her jacket on the passenger seat, carefully setting the puppy there. Content, the puppy laid down and closed her eyes. Normally puppies didn’t feel safe right away with their new owners but she already trusted her, a warm feeling went through her body. I won’t let you down. She thought as she caressed the puppy.

It wouldn’t be easy, he said, and he was right. Nothing that is of actual worth in this world is ever easy. She would have doubts, she would be scare but know she had a companion, a reminder, of who was protecting and guiding her. She was not alone. There was only one thing left. How should she name her new puppy? An ordinary or corny name was out of the question, this dog deserved a true name; something that capture what she truly was: a guide and a protector. She would have to do some research, and with that thought in her mind, she started the journey to her new life and self.

#hades #house of hades #greek gods #olympian gods #greek mythology

3 notes · View notes

succorcreek · 7 years

Photo

Narcissus the Killer? The myth of Narcissus is the story of I Me My Mine and NOT you becoming worse over time (Unedited version) clash of clans hack nowclash of clan hack clash of clan cheat hack The myth of Narcissus is one of the most known Greek Myths due to its uniqueness and moral tale; Narcissus was the son of River God Cephisus and nymph Lyriope. He was known for his beauty and he was loved by God Apollo due to his extraordinary physique. The myth of Narcissus comes in two different versions the Greek and the Greco-Roman version as both Conon the Greek and Ovid the Roman poet wrote the story of Narcissus enhancing it with different elements. Like to see more on Donald Trump Narcissism? Check in the alphabetical topic archive at the bottom of the page (it's the second giant list) for posts on: I Me MY Mine Greed Goals of the Psychopath Oligarch Oligarchy (Russian Greed) Theft Self focused and related "self" terms The Greek Version of the myth of Narcissus According to Conon Aminias a young man fell in love with Narcissus who had already spurned his male suitors. Aminias was also spurned by Narcissus who gave the unfortunate young man a sword. Aminias killed himself at Narcissus doorstep praying to the Gods to give Narcissus a lesson for all the pain he had provoked. Narcissus was once walking by a lake or river and decided to drink some water; he saw his reflection in the water and was surprised by the beauty he saw; he became entranced by the reflection of himself. He could not obtain the object of his desire though and he died at the banks of the river or lake from his sorrow. According to the myth Narcissus is still admiring himself in the Underworld looking at the waters of the Styx. The Roman Version of the Myth Ovid Mirror Mirror On The Wall Posts 3 of them you can page forward through them The myth presented by Ovid the poet is slightly altered. According to this myth Narcissus parents were worried because of the extraordinary beauty of the child and asked prophet Teiresias what to do regarding their sons future. Teiresias told them that the boy would grow old only if he didnt get to know himself. When Narcissus was sixteen he was walking in the woods and Nymph Echo saw him and felt madly in love with him. She started following him and Narcissus asked whos there feeling someone after him. Narcissus and Echo Echo responded whos there and that went on for some time until Echo decided to show herself. She tried to embrace the boy who stepped away from Echo telling her to leave him alone. Echo was left heartbroken and spent the rest of her life in glens; until nothing but an echo sound remained of her. Nemesis though the Goddess of Revenge heard the story and decided to punish Narcissus. From this point the stories are similar; Narcissus sees himself in the pond and he is amazed by the beauty of the reflection. Once he figured out that his love could not be addressed he killed himself. The myth of Narcissus in modern life and Art The myth of Narcissus is known also for one additional reason; the flower Narcissus that is found usually at the banks of rivers and lakes took its name after the mythical hero. It is a graceful flower featuring 40 different species mostly grown in Europe. It blooms in early spring and is considered fragile and very beautiful with white yellow and pink blossoms. The Myth of Narcissus has inspired several artists as well; the most known is Caravaggio who painted a young man admiring his reflection in the water. The painters Turner and Dali were also inspired by the myth while poets such as Keats and Housman used his example in many of their works. The Russian writer Fyodor Dostoevsky created several characters with the mentality and loneliness of Narcissus such as Yakov Petrovich Golyadkin. nice article thanks to and check out their other mythos:http://bit.ly/2ixNcUF In the Myths Narcissus didn't kill directly. He died before his Narcissism developed into a languid self-love that evolved from narcissism to psychopathy. In psychopathy the self love must scheme to get more and more of the self love and to strategize to get it dedicate one's life to get it and to use others to get it. If Narcissus had not died he would have become: a psychopath a taker thief a vampire a criminal a glib Machiavellian a gangster a drug lord an entitled mobster mafia There is an odd and indescribable hunger of the the pathological narcissist and dangerous psychopath the Dark Disorder. They are on a hunt at all times for their "food of self love": Dorian Grey seeks the eternal youth of his beautiful self while others are ignored. In some retellings he's likened to a vampire The movies Hannibal portrays a serial killer who is lost in the admiration of himself and his gory deeds with the image in the mirror loved being one of control cunning hunter and shock-doctor. Add to this any current world dictator serial killer psychopath the Las Vegas shooter that wanted to know there were security cameras filming his awful massacre and vampire movie (including the comedy ones) and any Marvel Movie where there is a megalomania killer or alien invasion! Hey it seems like Narcissus isn't really much danger to others so why even bring it up? The danger lies in what develops in the brain mind and personality over time. What is the danger in these stories both mythology and Grimm's fairy tales (Mirror Mirror on the Wall)? Is the warning just to Narcissus? No there is a full collapse of the kingdom: Donald Trump lives for attention and admiration and real governance is given only his spare time and the country suffers: Kim Jon-Un is on the camera blasting off another missile or presiding over a lavish show banquet or military parade. And for each bomb military parade costume or Kim's silk Mao suits paid for people go hungry.....they same is true for all other world dictators or drug lord In Russia where are the cameras always focused: on the cute face of Putin or a photo shoot of him trout fishing in the mountains with and without shirt on with and without horse mount. Some seem so innocent and innocuous but what is the danger of a Russian Oligarch stealing peoples incomes and allowing puppets to kill groups while the masses are marginalized and denied help and services? (see the tab above: Death and Genocide by Marginalization) I ME MY MINE and not you and btw: your money eventually will be my gold stores Psychopathic Leaders: 1. If a psychopath is looking in the mirror they're paying attention to the "object of their affection" themselves. They are not looking at other matters and details of life whether family or obligations. Consider the mirror as any of these persons truly looking in the mirror at themselves but also in the mirror or lens of admiration and notice by others: 2. If a psychopath then is looking at their object of their affection they build up in their mind that inflated value of themselves and the deflated value of otters. In that way others become servants to be used of lesser value getting the lot in life they deserve needing punished and in other cultures: deserving rape / torture or slavery. This is one of the reasons that over time psychopaths become worse and not nicer. Both the brain neural pathways and the mind/personality allow this self-infatuation and devaluation of others. Literally over time more of the brain's mental capacity and more of the personality is dedicated to self love conning deception and gack: More of the brain and mind / personality become dedicated to the devaluing of others! They can't be reasoned with helped to understand have a change of heart or "grow up". They instead become more narcissistic and debasing of others. They are more and more dangerous over time more criminal and more conning. Now if they appear nicer over time.....that comes from some skill in the art of the con and deception of others. In mythology and cinema young vampires are brash and inexperienced hunters of human souls and blood while older grey streak hair vampires of hundred of years know just how to appear to con. They are skilled and in movies which are a reflection of our human stories the skilled vampire is able to con village leaders and youthful beauties to their bloodbath via a refined red wine dinner in the dank vampire's castle. The stories tell remind us: Takers Take Vampires hunt and drain leaving empty husk humans behind and psychopaths do not change but become worse over time: Skilled and better at the con but now amazing more $$$$ The Brain dedicates more memory space problem solving and thought time as well as those connecting "neural pathways" becoming supercharged in narcissism. If there was any danger from a vampire a cruel dictator or a psychopath or 60% of persons in prison which is the amount of those there that are psychopathic I like to follow this rule which came about just through observation in 35 years of clinical work with this type: 1. The become 5% worse at who they are and what they do each year. 2. this is occurring in their brain neural pathways and mind / personality What are the exceptions to this??? There are some but really it's a matter of diagnosis errors. A. each psychopath has childhood traits that are clues to the danger. As children they might or might not be dangerous to others and animals yet. But they may torture animals be a bully at age 5 do cruel things to siblings or parents. As a clinician I've always been aware and found the childhood traits because I knew what to look for. Most other times especially in psychiatry no time is given to a full childhood psychological investigation or the gathering of reports from not just parents (who may give a false and glowing good report of "Billy") but siblings and of early grade school records and reports. For more on this see the Books Evil Clowns and Las Vegas / Sandy Hook Shooters by Dr. Bunch. I've had many experiences in the clinical office and in personal life with children acting on their psychopathy or having the clues they'll become psychopaths: A few years ago a distant relative had a Holiday dinner I attended. Their 6 year old came up to me and with a smile cunningly said "If you look at my mother I'll kill you". Througout the event glares and reminders were sent as if from Hannibal Lecter or Chucky (both movie psychopathic killers). I tried to see if the child was playing was told to say so by siblings or mimicking some character. My feelings though told the truth: I'm a person who walks without fear in danger zones in Mexico City and Rio de Janeiro but this was one of the few times I could recall being drawn into a terrifying scenario. And the event wasn't something I'd projected onto little Hannibal because I've only recent years studied child psychopathy and some related horror films. But it did bring up feelings I found in the docudrama true movie of Donald Trump's mentor: Roy Cohn. The movie and many posts are on the site archive under Cohn Roy Cohn and movies. I determined that this kid was the smart type that could put some poison in your soup like Chucky movies. How do they gain this particular knowledge? We're all drawn to our own brilliances and interests. Some kids are drawn to their love of sciences dolls toys guns anime cartoons heroes sports relaxation reading or imagination. Psychopaths are drawn to the brilliance of their Vampire Taking and other areas of their lives suffer because of it which also happens to all of us: Susie spends time imagining stories and ignores her father and mother that could model some living skills. She might be taken advantage of by others later in life without those skills. Little Lecters spend time developing bully skills developing theft strategies developing con and coverup methods while other parts of their life may be neglected. For many like Roy Cohn psychopath they are socially skilled and street wise but he in his law or government roles was very shallow. He had little knowledge or need for history which would have changed his cruel government actions he took with McCarthy against gays actors and blacks all groups as "Commies". Little Lectors have no or limited knowledge of the greater world languages cultures peoples nature or hobbies. Their mind is FOCUSED on the psychopathy matters while these fall to the wayside: They're not likely to be involved seriously in: Scouting ongoing community service palling around with a younger sibling developing hobbies: Legos or rocks having "humble jobs" as a youth such as delivering door flyers (in my time it was delivering newspapers) being a school peer counselor being in a spelling bee or science competition having a disabled friend having multi racial friends (a white boy hangs out only with other white boys a Hispanic boy only hangs out with other Hispanic boys) low interest in reading books not in the public library and so on. So back to the exceptions: 2. PTSD: returning war veterans go on a rampage shooting kill girlfriends or become repeat felony criminals in other ways. Is this an exception. Do psychopathic killings occur when the person is not a psychopath? Does the disorder just kick in when a veteran with PTSD returns and kills 5 persons in a bar at age 28 or 20 years later at age 48? These events are related to persons wth PTSD but the underlying cause is missed: 40% of War Veterans have PTSD Possibly 20% of Americans have PTSD from assault trauma childhood bullying War Veteran witness trauma medical crisis trauma etc. at least 95% of all those with PTSD of all types are not psychopaths and do not commit mass shootings murders or felony crimes Those shooters then have psychopathy and PTSD both. But the cause of the shootings is associated with the rage superiority and must punish issues of the psychopathy (see more in the book Las Vegas / Sandy Hook) This is the case where we're saying the person was fully "typical" and not a narcissist or psychopath as a child or teenager. Now when does a psychopathic pattern not equal psychopathy? There are rare if actually not any cases. Earlier from about year 2000 to 2010 returning war veterans that were involved with single or mass shootings were finally recognized as having gone off the deep end the war trauma being the major trigger. At that time they were given the benefit of having a diagnosis of PTSD. Now we know that 40% of all war veterans whether they saw combat or not have PTSD Post Trauma Stress Disorder. This is a disorder seen both in brain scans and in one's psychology. Later investigations after 2010 have revealed though that those who's childhood history could be investigated showed: bullying of siblings parents school mates teachers not following rules rage torture of animals including dismembering birds destruction of childhood and teen minor or major crimes a pattern of childhood psychopathy: oppositional defiant disorder self interest lack of sympathy and bias: there are those that are lesser and deserve punished bullied money taken away from at school made fun of called sissy's cut with knives or other minor or major torture grandiosity grandiose plans Bill was a 12 year old patient who took my waiting room wall clock that was broken down. With a knife which was not to have on him he set about disassembling the clock. His mother said he does that where he does think he can fix things and is "very mechanically inclined" as he says but everything ends up in a pile of metal cogs and broken parts. He was grandiose in what he thought he could do but not one step of the repair was undertaken. It didn't matter that he had a giant inventory of disassembled items because he never considered it a failure moving on quickly to another subject. Some psychopaths like Donald Trump Duterte of the Phillipines and El-Esis of Egypt have this inkling: they are good at unraveling and disassembling things but not at putting things together combining them or synthesizing new ideas. In fact Donald Trump's campaign promise was to unravel so many aspects of wieldy government which he had set about doing the first 9 months of office. But now he's unravelled the rope so much it can't be rewound. It seems many psychopathic leaders hope to get other experts on their staff to to the rebuilding of something "new" or just put it back together again. Putin seems mentally organized enough to get those persons to do his work. But Donald Trump Roy Cohn and Duterte are too mentally disorganized to accomplish this and that is their Waterloo. Trump is distracted throughout the day with an Attention Deficit Disorder from the matters of State to: TweetStorms Tweet Baiting vulnerable people Political Conflict with colleagues Promoting Properties and golfing Competing with Putin and other Dictators: my gold is more than yours Being seen and admiring Planning pre-emptive and counter attacks (today Donald Trump said after Senator Bob Corker announced Trump is only divisive for our country: "Bob Corker is the most divisive person..... ......And now I'm rebuilding this Country So Well". (see what this method of attack lie is in the book Skyscrapers of Lies and Deceit) See articles in the Topic Cloud Archive: Unravel Disassemble Decompile Psychopaths Pirates Vampires and more: Run flee tell others! 300 topics on this listed below in the Cloud Archive: Click Here: Catalog of 100 Books Kindle Hypnosis Binaural Subliminal CDs death by marginalization mirror mirror on the wall narcissus self focus trump self absorbed #trumpbully #stopbully #trumpmentalhealth http://bit.ly/2rZ1vSp

Narcissus the Killer

#narcissist abuse #psychopath abuse #trump bully #abuse recovery #ptsd #ptsd recovery #ptsd hypnosis

0 notes

succorcreek · 7 years

Text

Narcissus the Killer?

The myth of Narcissus is the story of

I Me My Mine, and NOT you becoming worse over time

(Unedited version)

clash of clans hack nowclash of clan hack clash of clan cheat hack

The myth of Narcissus is one of the most known Greek Myths, due to its uniqueness and moral tale; Narcissus, was the son of River God Cephisus and nymph Lyriope. He was known for his beauty and he was loved by God Apollo due to his extraordinary physique. The myth of Narcissus comes in two different versions, the Greek and the Greco-Roman version, as both Conon the Greek and Ovid, the Roman poet, wrote the story of Narcissus, enhancing it with different elements.

Like to see more on Donald Trump Narcissism? Check in the alphabetical topic archive at the bottom of the page (it's the second giant list), for posts on:

I Me MY Mine

Greed

Goals of the Psychopath

Oligarch

Oligarchy (Russian Greed)

Theft

Self focused and related "self" terms

The Greek Version of the myth of Narcissus

According to Conon, Aminias, a young man fell in love with Narcissus, who had already spurned his male suitors. Aminias was also spurned by Narcissus who gave the unfortunate young man a sword. Aminias killed himself at Narcissus’ doorstep praying to the Gods to give Narcissus a lesson for all the pain he had provoked. Narcissus was once walking by a lake or river and decided to drink some water; he saw his reflection in the water and was surprised by the beauty he saw; he became entranced by the reflection of himself. He could not obtain the object of his desire though, and he died at the banks of the river or lake from his sorrow. According to the myth Narcissus is still admiring himself in the Underworld, looking at the waters of the Styx.

The Roman Version of the Myth – Ovid

Mirror Mirror On The Wall Posts, 3 of them, you can page forward through them The myth presented by Ovid the poet is slightly altered. According to this myth, Narcissus’ parents were worried because of the extraordinary beauty of the child and asked prophet Teiresias what to do, regarding their son’s future. Teiresias told them that the boy would grow old only if “he didn’t get to know himself”. When Narcissus was sixteen he was walking in the woods and Nymph Echo saw him and felt madly in love with him. She started following him and Narcissus asked “who’s there”, feeling someone after him.

Narcissus and Echo

Echo responded “who’s there” and that went on for some time until Echo decided to show herself. She tried to embrace the boy who stepped away from Echo, telling her to leave him alone. Echo was left heartbroken and spent the rest of her life in glens; until nothing but an echo sound remained of her. Nemesis, though, the Goddess of Revenge, heard the story and decided to punish Narcissus. From this point the stories are similar; Narcissus sees himself in the pond and he is amazed by the beauty of the reflection. Once he figured out that his love could not be addressed, he killed himself.

The myth of Narcissus in modern life and Art

The myth of Narcissus is known also for one additional reason; the flower Narcissus that is found usually at the banks of rivers and lakes, took its name after the mythical hero. It is a graceful flower featuring 40 different species, mostly grown in Europe. It blooms in early spring and is considered fragile and very beautiful, with white, yellow and pink blossoms. The Myth of Narcissus has inspired several artists as well; the most known is Caravaggio who painted a young man admiring his reflection in the water. The painters Turner and Dali were also inspired by the myth, while poets, such as Keats and Housman, used his example in many of their works. The Russian writer Fyodor Dostoevsky created several characters with the mentality and loneliness of Narcissus, such as Yakov Petrovich Golyadkin. nice article, thanks to and check out their other mythos: http://bit.ly/2ixNcUF In the Myths, Narcissus didn't kill directly. He died before his Narcissism developed into a languid self-love that evolved from narcissism to psychopathy. In psychopathy, the self love must scheme to get more and more of the self love, and to strategize to get it, dedicate one's life to get it, and to use others to get it. If Narcissus had not died, he would have become:

a psychopath

a taker, thief

a vampire

a criminal

a glib Machiavellian

a gangster

a drug lord

an entitled mobster, mafia

There is an odd and indescribable hunger of the the pathological narcissist and dangerous psychopath, the Dark Disorder. They are on a hunt at all times for their "food of self love":

Dorian Grey seeks the eternal youth of his beautiful self, while others are ignored. In some retellings, he's likened to a vampire

The movies Hannibal portrays a serial killer who is lost in the admiration of himself and his gory deeds, with the image in the mirror loved being one of control, cunning, hunter, and shock-doctor.

Add to this any current world dictator, serial killer psychopath, the Las Vegas shooter that wanted to know there were security cameras filming his awful massacre, and vampire movie (including the comedy ones), and any Marvel Movie where there is a megalomania killer or alien invasion!

Hey, it seems like Narcissus isn't really much danger to others, so why even bring it up? The danger lies in what develops in the brain, mind, and personality over time. What is the danger in these stories, both mythology and Grimm's fairy tales (Mirror Mirror on the Wall)? Is the warning just to Narcissus? No, there is a full collapse of the kingdom:

Donald Trump lives for attention and admiration, and real governance is given only his spare time and the country suffers:

Kim Jon-Un is on the camera blasting off another missile or presiding over a lavish show, banquet, or military parade. And, for each bomb, military parade costume, or Kim's silk Mao suits paid for, people go hungry.....they same is true for all other world dictators or drug lord

In Russia, where are the cameras always focused: on the cute face of Putin, or a photo shoot of him trout fishing in the mountains with and without shirt on, with and without horse mount.

Some seem so innocent and innocuous, but what is the danger of a Russian Oligarch stealing peoples incomes and allowing puppets to kill groups, while the masses are marginalized and denied help and services? (see the tab above: Death and Genocide by Marginalization)

I ME MY MINE

and not you

and btw: your money eventually will be my gold stores

Psychopathic Leaders: 1. If a psychopath is looking in the mirror, they're paying attention to the "object of their affection", themselves. They are not looking at other matters and details of life, whether family or obligations. Consider the mirror as any of these persons truly looking in the mirror at themselves, but also in the mirror or lens of admiration and notice by others: 2. If a psychopath then is looking at their object of their affection, they build up in their mind that inflated value of themselves, and the deflated value of otters. In that way others become servants, to be used, of lesser value, getting the lot in life they deserve, needing punished, and in other cultures: deserving rape / torture or slavery. This is one of the reasons that over time, psychopaths become worse and not nicer. Both the brain neural pathways and the mind/personality allow this self-infatuation and devaluation of others. Literally, over time, more of the brain's mental capacity and more of the personality is dedicated to self love, conning, deception, and gack: More of the brain and mind / personality become dedicated to the devaluing of others! They can't be reasoned with, helped to understand, have a change of heart, or "grow up". They instead become more narcissistic and debasing of others. They are more and more dangerous over time, more criminal, and more conning. Now, if they appear nicer over time.....that comes from some skill in the art of the con and deception of others. In mythology and cinema, young vampires are brash and inexperienced hunters of human souls and blood, while older grey streak hair vampires of hundred of years know just how to appear to con. They are skilled and in movies, which are a reflection of our human stories, the skilled vampire is able to con village leaders and youthful beauties to their bloodbath via a refined red wine dinner in the dank vampire's castle. The stories tell remind us:

Takers Take

Vampires hunt and drain, leaving empty husk humans behind

and psychopaths do not change, but become worse over time: Skilled and better at the con, but now amazing more $$$$

The Brain dedicates more memory space, problem solving, and thought time as well as those connecting "neural pathways" becoming supercharged in narcissism. If there was any danger from a vampire, a cruel dictator, or a psychopath or 60% of persons in prison which is the amount of those there that are psychopathic, I like to follow this rule, which came about just through observation in 35 years of clinical work with this type: 1. The become 5% worse at who they are and what they do each year. 2. this is occurring in their brain, neural pathways, and mind / personality What are the exceptions to this??? There are some, but really, it's a matter of diagnosis errors. A. each psychopath has childhood traits that are clues to the danger. As children, they might or might not be dangerous to others and animals yet. But, they may torture animals, be a bully at age 5, do cruel things to siblings or parents. As a clinician, I've always been aware and found the childhood traits because I knew what to look for. Most other times, especially in psychiatry, no time is given to a full childhood psychological investigation or the gathering of reports from not just parents (who may give a false and glowing good report of "Billy"), but siblings and of early grade school records and reports. For more on this, see the Books, Evil Clowns and Las Vegas / Sandy Hook Shooters by Dr. Bunch. I've had many experiences in the clinical office and in personal life with children acting on their psychopathy or having the clues they'll become psychopaths: A few years ago, a distant relative had a Holiday dinner I attended. Their 6 year old came up to me and with a smile cunningly said, "If you look at my mother I'll kill you". Througout the event, glares and reminders were sent as if from Hannibal Lecter or Chucky (both movie psychopathic killers). I tried to see if the child was playing, was told to say so by siblings, or mimicking some character. My feelings though told the truth: I'm a person who walks without fear in danger zones in Mexico City and Rio de Janeiro, but this was one of the few times I could recall being drawn into a terrifying scenario. And, the event wasn't something I'd projected onto little Hannibal because I've only recent years studied child psychopathy and some related horror films. But, it did bring up feelings I found in the docudrama true movie of Donald Trump's mentor: Roy Cohn. The movie and many posts are on the site archive under Cohn, Roy Cohn, and movies. I determined that this kid was the smart type that could put some poison in your soup like Chucky movies. How do they gain this particular knowledge? We're all drawn to our own brilliances and interests. Some kids are drawn to their love of sciences, dolls, toys, guns, anime cartoons, heroes, sports, relaxation, reading, or imagination. Psychopaths are drawn to the brilliance of their Vampire Taking, and other areas of their lives suffer because of it, which also happens to all of us: Susie spends time imagining stories, and ignores her father and mother that could model some living skills. She might be taken advantage of by others later in life without those skills. Little Lecters spend time developing bully skills, developing theft strategies, developing con and coverup methods, while other parts of their life may be neglected. For many, like Roy Cohn psychopath, they are socially skilled and street wise, but he in his law or government roles was very shallow. He had little knowledge or need for history, which would have changed his cruel government actions he took with McCarthy against gays, actors, and blacks, all groups as "Commies". Little Lectors have no or limited knowledge of the greater world, languages, cultures, peoples, nature or hobbies. Their mind is FOCUSED on the psychopathy matters, while these fall to the wayside: They're not likely to be involved seriously in:

Scouting, ongoing

community service

palling around with a younger sibling

developing hobbies: Legos or rocks

having "humble jobs" as a youth, such as delivering door flyers (in my time, it was delivering newspapers)

being a school peer counselor

being in a spelling bee or science competition

having a disabled friend

having multi racial friends (a white boy hangs out only with other white boys, a Hispanic boy only hangs out with other Hispanic boys)

low interest in reading books, not in the public library

and so on.

So, back to the exceptions: 2. PTSD: returning war veterans go on a rampage shooting, kill girlfriends, or become repeat felony criminals in other ways. Is this an exception. Do psychopathic killings occur when the person is not a psychopath? Does the disorder just kick in when a veteran with PTSD returns and kills 5 persons in a bar at age 28, or 20 years later at age 48? These events are related to persons wth PTSD but the underlying cause is missed:

40% of War Veterans have PTSD

Possibly 20% of Americans have PTSD from assault, trauma, childhood bullying, War Veteran, witness trauma, medical crisis trauma, etc.

at least 95% of all those with PTSD of all types, are not psychopaths and do not commit mass shootings, murders, or felony crimes

Those shooters, then have psychopathy and PTSD both. But, the cause of the shootings is associated with the rage, superiority, and must punish issues of the psychopathy (see more in the book Las Vegas / Sandy Hook)

This is the case where we're saying the person was fully "typical" and not a narcissist or psychopath as a child or teenager. Now, when does a psychopathic pattern not equal psychopathy? There are rare, if actually not any cases. Earlier, from about year 2000 to 2010, returning war veterans that were involved with single or mass shootings were finally recognized as having gone off the deep end, the war trauma being the major trigger. At that time, they were given the benefit of having a diagnosis of PTSD. Now, we know that 40% of all war veterans, whether they saw combat or not, have PTSD, Post Trauma Stress Disorder. This is a disorder seen both in brain scans and in one's psychology. Later investigations after 2010 have revealed though, that those who's childhood history could be investigated, showed:

bullying of siblings, parents, school mates, teachers

not following rules

rage

torture of animals, including dismembering birds

destruction of

childhood and teen minor or major crimes

a pattern of childhood psychopathy: oppositional defiant disorder

self interest

lack of sympathy

and bias: there are those that are lesser and deserve punished, bullied, money taken away from at school, made fun of, called sissy's, cut with knives or other minor or major torture,

grandiosity, grandiose plans*

*Bill was a 12 year old patient who took my waiting room wall clock that was broken, down. With a knife, which was not to have on him, he set about disassembling the clock. His mother said he does that, where he does think he can fix things and is "very mechanically inclined" as he says, but everything ends up in a pile of metal cogs and broken parts. He was grandiose in what he thought he could do, but not one step of the repair was undertaken. It didn't matter that he had a giant inventory of disassembled items, because he never considered it a failure, moving on quickly to another subject. Some psychopaths, like Donald Trump, Duterte of the Phillipines and El-Esis of Egypt have this inkling: they are good at unraveling and disassembling things, but not at putting things together, combining them, or synthesizing new ideas. In fact, Donald Trump's campaign promise was to unravel so many aspects of wieldy government, which he had set about doing the first 9 months of office. But, now, he's unravelled the rope so much, it can't be rewound. It seems many psychopathic leaders hope to get other experts on their staff to to the rebuilding of something "new" or just put it back together again. Putin seems mentally organized enough to get those persons to do his work. But Donald Trump, Roy Cohn, and Duterte are too mentally disorganized to accomplish this, and that is their Waterloo. Trump is distracted throughout the day, with an Attention Deficit Disorder, from the matters of State to:

TweetStorms

Tweet Baiting vulnerable people

Political Conflict with colleagues

Promoting Properties and golfing

Competing with Putin and other Dictators: my gold is more than yours

Being seen and admiring

Planning pre-emptive and counter attacks (today, Donald Trump said, after Senator Bob Corker announced Trump is only divisive for our country:

"Bob Corker is the most divisive person..... ......And, now I'm rebuilding this Country So Well". (see what this method of attack lie is, in the book Skyscrapers of Lies and Deceit) See articles in the Topic Cloud Archive: Unravel Disassemble Decompile

Psychopaths, Pirates, Vampires, and more:

Run, flee, tell others! 300 topics on this listed below in the Cloud Archive:

Click Here: Catalog of 100 Books, Kindle, Hypnosis Binaural Subliminal CDs

via Blogger http://bit.ly/2h5ai1j #trumppirate #trumpgangster

#trumpmental trumpmentalhealth trumpdisorder trumpwolf trumpgangster

0 notes