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Being in Love is Like Being an Assassin

I have this unhealthy habit of comparing myself to others in worse case scenarios.

Keera used to tell me about how she’d grow up to be an assassin and she’d make a ton of money being paid to kill people. We were young and stupid with no future except for the foolish made up adventures in our heads. She’d talk about how easy it was to just point the weapon and shoot, that it didn’t matter whose life was at the other end of that gun. After all, we didn’t like people, so it was the perfect job for the both of us.

Oh, sure, I’d be the perfect assassin! I’d get on a plane to Paris, sight see for the day, head on over to some location I had scouted ahead of time, watch the target in my scope and take my time to pull the trigger, eventually, pulling the trigger. Then I’d pack up and go home. I was never going to get married. I was never going to be burdened down with family or attachments. And I was never going to care about the person I just killed…or so I thought. Reality was much different.

I didn’t know how to hold a gun, let alone, shoot it. I’m deathly afraid of zombies, so any dead person isn’t ideal to me. There was this weird fantasy that I could be that kind of person, that I could easily just hide myself away and deal with the circumstances. The fantasy was that I could make myself into anything, even a terrible monster, because I was capable of being just like everyone else.

Being in love is like being an assassin. Worse case scenario, I’d get cheated on by the one I love, with someone I knew or have known, and they’d live happily ever after while I get to be brave and deal with the broken pieces of my heart. I’ve never been cheated on so this is simply an irrational fantasy in my head.

There’s this idea and this thought that if so and so’s relationship with this person ended up like that, then perhaps my relationship with that person would end up like that too. And what hurts worse than being betrayed by the one you love? It’s an experience I know all too well, but only from writing and from reading books. I imagine myself to be able to handle that kind of pain, to be brave and not give a damn about the past, and most importantly, to move on. So what if some guy I saw myself being with for the rest of my life broke my heart? Pfft. I’d heal. I’m an independent woman. I don’t need a man to rule over me.

There’s all these empowering thoughts, all these encouraging words, but I still have this worse case scenario fantasy in my head because my mind wants me to acknowledge that I am tougher than my circumstances, that I am going to be perfectly fine. I can handle pretty much anything. I am a badass woman. Hear me roar.

That’s not always the case. Worse case scenario for anything and everything is that the ones you love could be no more. It’s easier to deal with rejection than to deal with death. Death leaves an empty hole as it takes away a part of you that was attached to someone or something (a pet, for example).

What I’m doing is semi healthy and semi disturbed. My habit of continuously putting myself into these fake situations is two fold: I can prepare for the worse that happens and work through stressful and what could be mind debilitating problems while I’m still rational and calm, or I can masochistically torture myself with false illusions that never were, never are, and never will be which can indeed cripple my sense of self over time. Hm, to weigh the scales, which is which and is it worth it creating imaginary problems to test out my ability to handle such imaginary problems? Such a hard dilemma.

Being in love and being an assassin isn’t actually similar in any way. I really can’t compare because I’ve never been an assassin, but being in love is something that doesn’t need complications from misconceived ideas of what love is and what love isn’t. To be in love is wonderful and one should just enjoy it for what it is: love.

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Posted by on January 25, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Life Lessons From High School

There was this tiny goth girl named Stephanie that I used to know in high school. She hated me. She thought I dated her ex-boyfriend, Tim, because we were always together. Tim and I were good friends. We were smart enough to pass our classes without actually paying attention, so we did whatever we wanted.

Stephanie and I actually became good friends later. I admit that I hated certain things because she liked them, like SpongeBob and this tall, super pale, probably only 100 pound emo goth vampire wannabe named Jay. -.-

Before Stephanie and I became good friends, I met a girl named Keera at Jay’s house. We were both tricked into going there. Keera thought she was going to the movies and my friend Will was supposed to be taking me home after school. Instead, he took me and Stephanie there.

Keera didn’t like Stephanie. The only thing Keera and I had in common was that we both didn’t like the same girl. As to why I didn’t like Stephanie, I don’t really know. I didn’t like a lot of people back then, even less now, but Keera and I bonded over our mutual annoyance at being tricked and at our mutual dislike of a girl whom everyone liked and we didn’t understand why.

Keera always talked bad about Stephanie. I usually just went along and listened, not stopping her from ranting. I was older than everyone. Stephanie was sixteen or seventeen and Keera was a year younger than her. On and on, we’d talk bad about a girl we didn’t even know, a girl we disliked for absolutely no damn reason at all.

Stephanie had a bad home life. She got a job at Dunkin’ Donuts and worked hard. She eventually got a car and moved out of her parents’ house.

I remember how Keera used to make fun of Stephanie and her job. It was odd to me because Keera never had a job, didn’t want to work, smoked weed and drank and smoke cigarettes, and had no foreseeable future, but Stephanie had a future and she was working hard toward that future. It was silly for someone who did nothing nothing to improve their life to make fun of someone who was trying very hard to improve their life.

Stephanie and I became close friends after I finally dispelled her relationship thoughts of me and Tim. She trusted me with her secrets. We swore to be sisters. And when I couldn’t hold my end to always protect her, I gave her protection over to Ganesh, the elephant god she adored.

Unhappy people sucks your life and makes you unhappy too. I should’ve seen the warning signs. Unhappy people make fun of people they don’t know. They find any excuse to make someone else look bad so they can feel better about their selves. Keera was very unhappy. And around her, I was unhappy too. I was unhappy for a long time, a time lasting longer than the actual years I knew Keera.

I lost touch with Stephanie after a while, but I was friends with Keera for a long time. If I could change it, I’d rather be friends with Stephanie and lose touch with Keera.

When making friends, choose people who are going somewhere, who have goals, who want to do something with their lives. Don’t choose people who want you to sit with them because they don’t want to get up and move.

 
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Posted by on December 7, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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How the Man with the Long Hair Turned into Mr. Grey

Something I wrote back in 2008/02/04. It’s part of a story.

***

The day is clear and beautiful as dewdrops still clung to the blades of grass trampled underfoot by the man who walked carelessly along the unmarked path in the dark woods. He is tall and slim – not skinny but pale, as pale as the creamy surface of the moon that sometimes could be seen in the sky during such a beautiful day as this. His long hair fell right below his waist, tied in a ponytail braid without a source of a tie. Loose strands of hair framed his angular yet long face. His eyes are a dreamy deep chestnut tinged with goldenrod streaks. His thin lips curled into a grin as thoughts of joy danced through his head.

He walked towards the edge of the dark woods, towards the village but not close to it. His destination is somewhere different than neither the quaint shops of arcane and modern delicacies in the midst of the village nor the huge architectural wonders of the city. He took a turn and walked forward, up a grassy hill that sloped more like the side of a deep cliff instead of a small rounded bump. He soon reached a modest residence that stood alone at the top, its white columns holding together two stories of which were painted bright white but had aged to an almost dirty speckled white where some patches of the house were covered with more dirt than the rest. The house had no windows visible and no entrances or exits save a door that stood in between two post classical columns.

He stepped up to the door and slightly raped three times, pausing to speculate whether the owner is home or not before lifting his hand to rap again. Suddenly, the door opened and he peered into the dimly lit home as his hand paused in mid air, waiting to rap again at the door.

Another man, a taller man with blonde hair and flaming green eyes looked at him nervously while tapping an irritated foot against the hardwood floor. “Yes?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in question of the man on his doorstep.

The first man mumbled a few words audible only to those within an arm’s reach and the owner of the residence opened the door wider and allowed him entry. The door shut behind as the first man walked inside with a smile, his mouth chattering and continuing on the conversation.

It is nearly dusk now and all around is quiet. No noisy beetles or chirping crickets abounded. The very beginnings of stars appeared overhead along with the moon to light the way for travelers but the house stood motionless. Then the door opened and the man with the long hair walked out, a look of satisfaction plastered on his face as he dragged behind him a huge mahogany box. The door shut itself as the man past and it once more stood still, resembling a sleeping giant.

The man walked the same way he had come and through the dark woods he ventured. The night sky changed the shadows of the woods and an eerie dread replaced the look of happiness on the man’s face. He is nervous now, glancing around at every stir within the woods; beads of sweat started to form on his face as he walked forward. The soft click of a tree branch or an old tree limb that cracked underneath the weight of a passing critter stopped him in his tracks. He stood still and cold, with the passing of the breeze, as a statue in the middle of the dark woods. His eyes scanned his surroundings, terrified of what he should find. A moment passed. Then more and more time passed and no creepy shadow came to pester him. He moved slowly and walked, his pace quickening as if he is silently being chased by some unseen presence.

The edge of the box hit against an ancient tree as the man stopped and from behind the tree, pulled out a shovel. The moistness of the dirt made it easy to scoop out and pile beside the roots of the tree. The rain the night before drenched the earth and made it easier for the man to dig deep and fast. It didn’t take very long until he dug enough and seeing that, he laid the shovel against the side of the tree as he shoved the box into the hole. It hit the bottom of the hole with a thud, a soft sound that barely could be heard but was rather felt by the swaying of the contents inside.

Reaching down, his fingers gently clasp the silver chain and ran it through thumb and forefinger, feeling the smoothness of the chain. His fingers stopped momentarily to outline the detail of the charm before he caught a glimpse of green.

The man with the green eyes stared intently at him, those bright green eyes flaming with anger. The man with the long hair bent down over the box with a casual grin. He bent down closer into the box to unclasp the necklace and as he did so, the man with the green eyes whispered something into his ear. He shrieked back from the box as if in pain and the flames within the green eyes of the man in the box burned into the depths of his soul. He gripped his head in agony and fell onto the ground, gasping for air.

It was a moment before it all faded and the man with the long hair stood up once more. He took the necklace and stuffed it into his pocket, a silver necklace with a silver charm. He laughed at the man in the box. The man with the green eyes was tied at the wrists and ankles with heavy rope. Although his mouth was not gagged, he did not speak. He only stared with unblinking eyes.

The man with the long hair spat into the box three times, took the shovel and poured dirt back into the box, starting from the foot of the box and working his way up to the face of the man with the green eyes. As he lifted the shovel high in the air, heaping full of rich black earth, he grinned at the man with the green eyes – those flaming green eyes which were all bright and vibrant looked back a lifeless and dull green, cloudy and weary. The man hesitated before tipping the shovel over to pour dirt on top of the man in the box. He heaved dirt back and forth, filling up the box and soon, filling up the hole that he had dug. He patted the earth with the backside of the shovel once his task is finished and smiled to himself; a hand deep into the inner reaches of his pocket, fingers intertwined with chain and charm. He threw the shovel behind the tree and spat three more times on the freshly buried grave. Satisfied, he began to walk away from the grave, the box, the tree, and the memories of the man with the green eyes. He walked farther and farther until it all disappeared behind him, nothing more than a forgotten memory that is too forgotten to be remembered.

He walked until he reached the edge of the woods and saw the shadowed outline of the village ahead. Stepping forward, he is thrown back into the woods by unseen hands. His body throbbed and convulsed until he is so distorted that he did not know which arm was where and which foot was there. The pain spasms down his body from head to toe in great waves of anguish and he cried out horribly. His eyes burned and he longed to dig them out of the sockets if he could find a way to signal a hand to will itself towards his face. Tears ran down his cheeks and his endless screams of agony went unheard.

When it was all over, he laid in a heap in the woods, a meter from the edge of the village path. His head was bent underneath his back, broken oddly to one side while his legs twisted and curled here and there. His arms were twisted in unnatural positions and his eyes glistened with tears as the chain in his pocket is still clutched safely in one hand. Death is only a small thing but for him, the necklace had brought him more than death; it brought him the loss of his freedom.

Those big brown eyes rolled back into his head and as the whites appeared, his eyes closed on its own. His body stiffened and his mind ran away to dance with the nymphs of the distant waterfall. Death took him, in those clawed hands, and carried him away on threads of wispy blackness.

A moment later, the man with the long hair blinked. His fingers slowly – and painfully – lifted his legs from on top of his arms. He managed somehow to untwist himself, to bend into place what was bent out of place, and to snap his head back into its rightful position. He muttered as he sat on the cold earth; holding both his hands before his eyes, he tested each finger to see if they worked.

Cursing, he got up and walked towards the path again, towards the edge of the village. With one foot brushing the outside of the dark woods, in mid step, he is thrown back with such force that he landed somewhere that he did not recognize. He cringed at the sound of something broken as he hit the dirt floor. He found himself okay although he is not spared the pain from impacting the earth. He bent his foot back into place and reconnected his spine, muttering curses into the darkness. Somewhere in the night, he could hear the man with the green eyes laughing at him. He cursed the man with the green eyes and tried to find his way back to the edge of the dark woods. He began walking, only to find himself amongst moving shadows and nothing more. He came to the conclusion after several attempts that he is lost; not only lost but damned as well.

 ***

It is past dark now and she worried about him. She sat upon the white loveseat, her legs tucked neatly under he tiny frame. She sips freshly brewed hot tea made from the pink and purple tea flowers that bloomed on the top of the still lake, nestled in the woods, hidden behind rock and waterfall. She brought the teacup to her lips, two fingers resting on the tiny handle, and took a sip or two. The hot liquid warms her as it passed through her throat. She sat still; the only movement came from the steady lifting of the teacup.  Her eyes glance out the living room bay windows often as she hoped to catch sight of him walking towards her front door. Her long black hair hung down her shoulders and spread itself upon the brocaded loveseat.

This is not the first time that he has been late but he has never been this late before. She thought back to their last conversation and was lost deep in thought when there came a knock at the door. Time had passed and it is late morning when he arrived. She got up slowly, deliberately, and set her teacup upon the saucer that rested at the edge of a thick cherry oak table. She did not rush but glided towards the door with a smile on her face, thinking of how she would hug him instead of scold him for worrying her so. She is happy enough that he is safe and sound.

The door opened and she looked at him a moment, a bit confused and a bit bothered by the way he looked. His clothes carried dirt in almost every crevice and fold; somewhere along the way, he needed a shower badly. The smell of damp earth clung to him and she guided him upstairs to use her bathroom instead of turning him around to go home. When he finished and came downstairs with the new clothes that she had set out for him, she set out a second cup of tea for him on the table. He found her sitting on the sofa, her eyes smiling at him while she sips hot tea from her own cup.

He sat himself down beside her, not too close and not too far. He thanked her and took a big gulp of tea, a bit clumsily of manners, before whispering to her. He whispered of things unknown, things that made her eyes grow wide with fright. She caught herself before she screamed at his words. Her voice fell to into a broken whisper as she asked him where he had been and what he had been doing. He shook his head at her then fumbled with something in his pocket. She drew back from him, anticipating whether she should jump out of harm’s way or whether she would faint at what he brought forward.

With sad eyes, he withdrew a thing from his pocket, holding it in a closed hand; he held it out to her. She strained to see inside his hand but she could not see past his fingers and she longed to see what it is that he would show her. His fingers opened, palm up, and she saw a shiny thing in his grasp. Tears filled her eyes and she clasped the shiny object in her own palm and recognized it to be her own. She couldn’t stop the tears and she fell against the loveseat sobbing. Her hands still clutched the object, pulling it towards her heart as he leaned in to hold her and comfort her. Through tears, she drew away from him and bid him to leave. He hesitated before nodding his head low and showed himself out the door.

She lay on her side against the cushions of the sofa, her legs drawn up towards her chest, pressing against the hurt and pain. Her sobs softened to quiet whimpers. She could hear him leaving, walking away from her house back into the dark woods. She did not move. The day passed and morning came but she had neither gotten up from the sofa nor did her daily chores around the small house. She can hear the garden whisper and scream for her but she did not answer. She can hear him back again, on her doorstep, steadily knocking and she still did not answer. He left after seeing that she would not come. But the next day passed the same way. The same voices heard, the same knocking, the same screaming in her ears. She drowned the noise out with her own crying, coming from deep within her.

The house felt empty and she felt alone. Lying, she found herself escaping into dreams – dreams of now distant memories that faded too fast for her to grasp a hold of. Even in sleep, tears rolled down, wetting the expensive upholstery as she wandered away from reality into the space in between. She did not venture outside, nor did she venture into her garden where the weeds took root, overtaking her crops. Wild vines climbed and settled themselves over her house in tight overlapping rows. For a year, everything stayed the same. For two years, no one has seen a trace of her. The flowers that once grew in her garden and filled the yard with a sweet fragrance shriveled and died underneath the thick carpet of weeds and vines. Three years passed and she is forgotten; time passed and it continued until the dark woods swallowed her home and her garden. There is no presence of anything inhabitable as the woods reclaimed a part of itself that had once been infected but now healed.

***

Ameggo, that charming child with the curly brown hair, stared up at Maeroleez and grinned. His master is happy and as long as his master is happy, he too is content. They entered a home in the middle of the dark woods and as soon as the door shut, he could feel a change in the atmosphere. Ameggo stopped talking of his adventures with his only friend Keera and watched silently at his owner.

Maeroleez stood quiet by the door for a moment and when he turned around, Ameggo – frightened by the gleam in his eyes – backed into a corner of the house, crawling underneath the ragged quilted cover that he slept with. The man came swiftly and grabbed the child by the throat with one hand and held him up against the wall. The child struggled but he could not free himself from the tight grasp. He dared not try to claw his master’s hands if he valued his life.

Those big amber brown eyes welled up with tears as Maeroleez tightened his grip around the child’s neck. Ameggo pleaded and begged but the man only lifted him higher, laughing, watching the child struggle to no avail. Ameggo watched as his master’s other hand balled into a fist and struck hard against his own left cheek. Pain swept through him and Maeroleez, watching him in pain, the big teardrops streaming down his face, only made his want to hurt the child increase. The man felt stronger, more powerful than the child who desperately tried to free himself from his owner’s clutches. He hit Ameggo again and again, each time, the child cried out in pain, satisfying the man’s twisted lust.

He slammed the child into the far corner. Ameggo hit the wall with a thud, sliding down, hitting the wooden floor with another loud thud. He watched as the child whimpered and curled himself into a ball in that corner of the house; soft choking sobs came as he walked towards the child.

His hand touched Ameggo’s shoulder and the child jumped back afraid. In a pleasing voice, he coaxed the child into his arms. He gently rocked the patted the child’s head.

“Hush now.” He whispered as Ameggo clutched tightly to him, still sobbing. “It hurts me so much more to hurt you. I have told you before not to destroy her things. Please listen dear Ameggo. Hurting you hurts me so much more and I don’t even want to hurt you to begin with.”

He held the child and rocked him until he stopped sobbing.

“You’ll behave this time, won’t you?”

Ameggo stared into those deep brown eyes, a different color from his own. He nodded his head in agreement.

“Good.” Maeroleez smiled a wide smile at the child. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat!”

 Ameggo smiled too and swallowed the last of his tears. He believed every word that was said to him. He forgot the pain and the hurt; he traded the hatred for happiness as he followed Maeroleez into the kitchen. All the while, Maeroleez chattered in laughter and Ameggo laughed along too.

 

 
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Posted by on December 5, 2014 in Stories, Unfinished Stories

 

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Salvation and How it’s Not Merely a Christian Thing

Thanks to my good friend John, this journal entry is for you. ^_^

Last night, I discovered the truth about Rebecca Brown MD, author of He Came to Set the Captives Free and Prepare For War. It was disheartening because I believed what I read some odd six years ago when I was given a copy of the late 80’s published books to read.

He Came to Set the Captives Free and Prepare for War recounted the story of how Rebecca Brown, a doctor then, met with Elaine, a satanist and proclaimed bride of Satan, and saved her from the clutches of the wicked one.

My thoughts are pretty much said down below on a status post on Facebook which is below with permission from John for his comments.

Xao Thao feeling disappointed
10 hrs ·

I don’t think I can name one christian living today that is actually a real christian. It’s sad. All the things I believed in were simply exaggerated lies told by people with problems, much like myself. We all need help, but God, don’t offer it to people when you can’t fix yourself.

  • John Behrent Don’t try to be a good Christian, just try to be a good person.
    5 hrs · Unlike · 1
  • Xao Thao That defeats the whole point for me, John. However, I’ll keep trying as I go. I know I’m very far from anywhere “good”.

     

  • John Behrent Well, it may be time to look for a different point, then. Life’s all about change. We often get led in directions we don’t expect.
    2 hrs · Unlike · 1
  • Xao Thao Mortal men cannot corrupt what is holy. I like my God. Thanks.
  • John Behrent Change isn’t always about corruption. Just take it from someone who’s walked a lot of strange roads, noone can see all ends. And if your God can, he’s not giving out spoilers.
    2 hrs · Unlike · 1
  • Xao Thao It’s not about change. It’s about having something tangible to hold on to. When you don’t have anything physically real you can point to or hold on to, then it’s all about faith and believing in the impossible.I read two very old books by a Rebecca Brown MD called, “He Came to Set the Captives Free” and “Prepare for War”. They’re Christian books published in the late 80’s detailing how Rebecca Brown met and saved a “Bride of Satan” named Elaine. Satanists, as I know now instead of from back then, is a lot watered down, which probably made me believe the books even more because way back in history, people were much, much more intertwined with their faiths no matter what that faith was. You had sacrifices. I mean, seriously, no one does that anymore…to an extent. But that’s what I meant, people were passionate back then and they showed that passion through actions.Anyhow, those books were a foundation on a belief I held for a very long time, the belief that not all the lost were damned forever. Granted, I know I’m not any different from any pagan or occultist or wiccan or satanist because I know my faults and I know why I continue to sin, but there was hope that somewhere along the way, if one person could be saved through this whole event, it would be worth dying and being damned myself right now for that one person.I know that probably doesn’t even make a lot of sense, but I believed there was a reason why I I know what I know and that that knowledge could one day help someone which makes it all worth the while. Rebecca and Elaine were like me and my friend Keera. We were both delusional in our fantasies of a world beyond whichever one there was and while she lived it in her dreams, I lived it while awake because I was weird and I did weird things like that. Rebecca abused Elaine plenty, being a doctor who no longer is a doctor now, but much of their testimonies were simple fantasies created by the both of them, and oddly enough, there’s some homosexuality that comes into light in their real lives. While me and Keera didn’t spread our madness beyond ourselves, we were still mad, and for a good long while too. That was like a decade of my life there.

    There were people in my life I truly believed God wanted me to help and I did as much as I could. I remember telling someone once, “when God answers all your prayers, you can be sure that it’s God anymore”. And even with that, I held on to the belief that people were worth saving for. That is was quality over quantity. But the fact is, we all suck. We’re all the same. So what good is quality when it isn’t there to be found? There is no one person greater than the next and no one person who is much more worthy of being saved than the next. The only thing that distinguishes someone saved from someone unsaved, is that the saved person said yes to Jesus Christ. Albeit, that yes could simply just be a lie in itself as well.

    I don’t know anymore, but I do know that I’ve been everywhere else and nothing filled the empty hole inside of me. It is Christ who saved me and I’m happy with Him whether I understand anything or not. I simply wanted to see Christ in the world too, but that’s pretty much impossible.

  • Xao Thao This needs to be a journal entry.
  • John Behrent Xao, be attentive and you’ll realize that LIFE is about change.
  • Xao Thao I do change, John. I change every day. Change, however, doesn’t mean being indecisive and running after the first thing that excites you when your truths no longer work for you. Faith, to me, isn’t a fleeting fancy that I chase after anymore whenever it suits my whim. I used to do that when I was empty. I used to try and find things to fill that vast abyssal emptiness inside. I’m okay now. I’m not empty. I’m merely just a bit disappointed in myself and in humanity as a whole. And yet, I know there are still people worth saving, even those who don’t believe they can be saved. You don’t have to be a Christian to want salvation. Some simply want to be saved from the monsters that they are.
  • John Behrent That’s an interesting view of it all. Might be the start of a really insightful blog.
  • Xao Thao It is! And it’s dedicated to you! With that being said, this is all going in my blog if you have no objections. I’m always good for debates.
  • John Behrent No, that’s fine. Go ahead.
  • Xao Thao You’re awesome! Thanks!
  • John Behrent I just try to make my little corner of the world a little brighter. If I sometimes challenge all the God talk, it’s just in the name of spirited debate to encourage thought, not rudeness.
  • Xao Thao I’m abnormal. Rudeness is making fun of someone or bullying them, not questioning someone’s belief and trying to understand them or trying to make them understand that they know why they believe. I find it interesting that most people don’t even have a clue as to why they follow a certain faith. It’s kind of sad really. Just sheep to the slaughter. It’s always good to encourage thought, whether for your benefit or someone else’s.

What is very interesting is that near the end of this conversation on Facebook, I commented that salvation isn’t only for Christians, that some want to save themselves from the horrors that they are. It makes for a good blog entry, and it’s true. Salvation isn’t simply a Christian thing. Everyone wants to be saved in some way, shape, or form.

I’ll write a different post about it later. I’m about to be very busy. Later.

 

 
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Posted by on December 1, 2014 in Book Reviews, Diary

 

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Perfect Timing

I’m watching 2 Broke Girls and in the last episode of Season One where Max and Caroline attend the gala in hopes of cornering Martha Stewart to try their homemade cupcakes, Max meets Johnny as she’s coming out of the bathroom. He tells her that they’ve gotten far in their careers to be able to attend such a high class event and she responds that they haven’t gotten far at all (in their relationship). She asked why and he said, “timing, I guess”.

It reminds me of how important timing really is, not only when it comes to relationships, but to everything. If we were just a bit early or a bit late for some things in life, our lives could’ve been totally different. And I’m not talking about being early or late by months or years, but merely by hours or days.

Back in high school, I was tricked into meeting a guy named Jay. He was a super skinny tall white goth kid who did indeed live in a creepy house with an energy vortex of some kind (you can feel the energy when you’re there–it was crazy, but real). He had a hot roommate who was Irish and had freckles and red hair…but that’s a different story. Anyhow, Jay was this pretty awesome artist and I was expecting my friend Will to drop me off at home, not take me to someone else’s house.

I met Keera for the first time at Jay’s house. She was tricked by whoever brought her there as well. She thought she was going to the movies. Instead, we both ended up at a house with a bunch of horny teenagers and neither of us cared one bit for them or the hormones. And since neither of us did drive and had cars and could leave, we were forced to stay and meet.

It was by perfect timing that I happened to find Will and reminded him that he promised he’d drop me off at home that day. He was literally about to leave when I found him and if I had been a couple minutes late in getting to him after the bell rang, I would’ve missed out on Jay and Keera and my life would’ve been different. Neither Jay nor Keera attended school where I did (Jay was out of school as he was in his mid twenties) and neither one of them lived anywhere in the city I lived in.

A few minutes late, and I would’ve never had stories that spanned three books about the Otherworld and all those who lived there. I would’ve never had Demonico or any of those characters and all the crazy that came with it.

How much of our lives is purely coincidental? How much of it is actually perfect timing? Timing is indeed everything.

I once worked with a guy who had the coolest name I’ve ever heard of: Zebediah. It’s not a common name. We’d call him Zeb for short. He played baseball and he’d always invite me to his games, but I never wanted to go. He wanted me to see him play, but I wasn’t ready for any relationships. I always turned him down. He was a great guy: funny, smart, old fashioned–perfect…but the timing wasn’t. I honestly can’t imagine what life would be like now if I had said yes back then and just accepted his offer.

Life itself is a series of perfect timing. Everything actually works together, whether for good or bad, to control our lives and move it in a direction that has purpose and meaning.

It’s like hurricane Hugo of ’89 or some time way back in the past when I was still a single digit in age. We had this gigantic tree right next to our house and it was so big and so strong that nothing could move it. That night, it actually crashed into our house and smashed everything. My mom, being scared alone with young kids in a storm while my dad worked 3rd shift, took all of us kids and packed us into the living room where we slept on the floor. We actually survived the gigantic tree crashing into our house and smashing everything into bits. Hugo wasn’t even a bad storm and normally, my mom wouldn’t move us all to the living room, but the tree went right through my baby sister’s crib. If we had all just gone to sleep that night like normal, we would’ve all been dead or in the very least, hurt very badly which would’ve affected the rest of our lives. I would’ve probably never been able to write stories that needed to be told.

I know for a fact that my life is a bunch of hit and misses–anything and everything from good and bad luck, to the people in my life or those who have been in my life, to how I’m even still alive today.

A few minutes sooner, being unbuckled in the back seat of my best friend’s boyfriend’s car and sitting right in the middle with a giant gap that I easily fit through when we hit head on with a car that suddenly made a left turn, I would’ve flew right out that front windshield window had time not literally slowed down enough so I could see what was coming before it happened and brace myself by spreading my arms and legs wide and holding on to the back of their chairs. There wasn’t time to actually put on a seat belt. To be honest, I wasn’t even paying any attention to the front of the car. If time hadn’t literally slowed down, I wouldn’t be here today. And as crazy as that sounded, I actually survived a horrible car crash that put the driver, who had on a seat belt, in a coma for five days. He was hurt that bad. The entire front of the car was totaled. And to make things worse, it was Mother’s Day. Christina’s boyfriend took us shopping to get presents for our moms. I was sixteen.

For some reason, we normally only look at relationships in relation to timing. If I met this person sooner, they would be with me and not someone else. But perfect timing in fact determines every aspect of our lives. Perfect timing determines who we meet, what we do, how we do it, who we affect, who affects us, and basically everything in our lives is measured by a timeline we cannot compute into mathematical equations.

A few minutes later, and I would’ve missed meeting Michael who is the most amazing person I’ve ever known. He adores the hell out of me (literally, although he’s Asatru? I forget.Whatever his religion is, it isn’t Christian) and I adore him right back.

A few minutes later, and Shaun would’ve committed suicide.

Our lives are measured by time. That time, however, isn’t linear. Time isn’t a straight line. It is a messed up web of perfect that I haven’t even begun figuring out yet. Everything in our lives is perfect timing, even when we cannot see the perfection in all the imperfection of things gone wrong and things gone right.

 
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Posted by on October 29, 2014 in Diary

 

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The Reality of Watchers and Guardians and Everything Else in Between

For people who don’t know, I live a rather crazy fantasy life, one not really of my own choosing, but one that kind of just fell on me. I’m thankful that’s not literal.

I don’t indulge in the whole supernatural/new age/occultic/paranormal thing. I actually avoid it all unless there’s pressing matters that requires I must absolutely do something and can’t ignore. Today, I want to talk a bit about my weirdness and the things in it.

My crazy recurring dreams was the gateway drug into the madness for me. It’s common for people to have one or a few recurring dreams. All my dreams are recurring dreams. And that’s not normal. I was always afraid to sleep. And it wasn’t just the dreams. In waking life, I was immersed in an invisible world from as far back as I can remember, one where even my parents who were shamans (and still are), couldn’t understand and relate to. Apparently, the things I’ve experienced, aren’t normal to them either (shamans communicate with spirits). It made me feel more alone than ever. And in my quest to fit in somewhere–between the world of the living and the world of the invisible, I started to try and understand what was happening to me and why.

When I met Keera (whose name is actually spelled, Ke’era), I never knew she’d enlighten me a bit about my dreams and introduce me to hers, a world I called the Otherworld, and of the inhabitants who live there who have been in my dreams as well.

We were good friends. I thought we were. She thought I wanted them, that world and those things there. I didn’t live there. I was alive here. And I wanted to fit in here somewhere. It felt so good to have someone who would understand what I was talking about who wouldn’t look at me like I was crazy and who could actually say, “yeah, his name is Charlie”. For all the mistakes we’ve made in our friendship, she was my best friend for a long time. I don’t know where she is now or what has happened to her. I dream about her sometimes, but like in real life, she’s never there.

The Otherworld is a place that exists. I don’t know where specifically. I wrote our story–mine, actually, or whatever the thing there that looks like me and takes my name’s story. The woman with the long black hair.

For a while, Keera and I didn’t have names for them. They were named what we saw them as: the man with the ponytail; the demon; the woman with the red hair; the cursed man; the man with the green eyes; the short creatures; the lady who lived in the lake; etc. As we got more involved in that world and in them, we were able to know their names. Sometimes, they’d have normal names. Other times, their names were so creative, it sounded made up. Domonico/Demonico; Anna; Ameggo; Deltro Clearstone; Lorenzo; Charlie; Charly; Will; Maeroleez; Stephen; Carmelia; and of course, me and Keera.

How do you communicate with a world that isn’t here where voices are whispers on the wind and the entire world seems to exist within your own head? Keera and I used to call the Otherworld (she called it the OtherPlace) a shared delusion between us. It was shared schizophrenia and in a lot of ways, that was definitely it. I could infect her world and change it. And in the end, I ruined what was once a beautiful and happy and calm place for her by knowing its existence, by being a part of it.

Things got darker. And more terrifying. What used to be a quiet day relaxing in the trees for Keera in her dreams became nightmares, trying to run away from Mr. Gray, the cursed man. They became dreams of being locked up in mental institutions and having bombs strapped to the backs of others, having heads blown off with guns. And the violence increased.

I’m sure that if she could take it all back–letting me in and letting me know about her secret place–she would. Just like I would’ve taken it all back for the five years I was obsessed with finding myself and that place being a clue and what seemed like a lifetime wasted. Keera and I both have our regrets, about that world, about each other, about our past. But what’s done is done. All we can do now is to pick up the pieces and move on.

Demonico haunts me. I call him my best friend, because I can’t get rid of him. Right now, we’re not really on speaking terms. I’m actually not on speaking terms to any of them from that place, from that world. When I need him, he’s here. I guess that’s what counts. It’s a long story, one that spanned three books and I shortened to two: Beyond the Gates: Otherworld and Beyond the Gates: Darkworld.

I don’t really know what Demonico or any of the others would classify as. I call them all Watchers. Being a Christian, there’s a lot of blasphemy in my life, but aside from that, there’s also a lot of valuable insight.

What is a Watcher? In the world of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, a watcher is someone who guides and teaches the slayer in her job and duties. A Watcher is sort of the same thing. Many people have said that Watchers were once the fallen angels who came to earth and watched over the world of man, who took mortal women for wives and taught them magic and such things that mankind didn’t know of. In essence, both are true. A Watcher guides. A Watcher is a fallen angel. A Watcher teaches mankind magic. A Watcher is a nicer name than demon. Demons are fallen angels as well. So Demonico, whose name was once spelled Domonico, is actually in fact, a demon.

Contrary to popular belief, demons aren’t always the nasty, horrible smelling, violence feeding, murderous entities that they’re depicted in movies and television and books. Nope. Most demons are in fact, rather useful, rather truthful (to an extent for their own benefits), and rather nice. Yeah, I said it. They’re rather nice as in character wise kindness. After all, being mean and evil and murderous isn’t exactly a popular decision if their main purpose isn’t to kill, but to damn forever so they wouldn’t be alone when all that wonderful Judgement Day thing comes. Point is, it doesn’t matter what religion you are or what you believe in. Watchers, demons, guardians (yes, they have many names), and pretty much the majority of the invisible world exist whether you want to believe that they are real or not. Your acceptance of their existence isn’t needed for them to exist. They are here whether anyone believes or not. They have always been here.

Demonico wasn’t the first and he surely wasn’t the last in the multitude of weird things I attract. Why? I don’t even know. The next was Angelus. Another made up name for a dying god who isn’t dead and has more followers than probably the biggest church in the state I live in. Another Watcher I didn’t want.

I can’t even remember how Volk and I got to talking about Watchers and demons and such. I’m quite certain half of it had to do with my arrogance and his intelligence. He’s pretty arrogant too. He offered his Watcher, Angelus, to me. I declined. Never ask me a question where I can say no because I’d say no. He sounded so distraught. We were awesome friends. And yet, Angelus imposed himself on me. In the end, I was marked and part of the team. Yay. I sound so enthusiastic about getting deeper involved in the crazy of crazy. When my entire goal is to be normal and blend in with this world and society, more crazy things don’t help. But it’s difficult to pretend to be something I’m not either and I am not normal.

Angelus dies a lot. Go figure how a spirit can die, but they do. He was a construct, not the actual entity. I’ve had constructs. I’ve made them. Quite easy if you ask me, but then, everything’s been quite easy for me. It’s much harder for others. Do you want one composed of an actual effigy? How about one solid as a golem? Or one that just protects you while you’re doing all that astral traveling? How about one to protect you while you’re awake? There’s many uses for constructs. There’s many ways to make them. The most useful to me, are of me. Weird, but true.

The newest Watcher was Xyr, who, apparently skipped the entire bonding process that would’ve had to exist between me and Jay and instead, imposed himself on me. Again. Recurring theme here, I guess, of things forcing their way. For a weak and whiny girl who isn’t anything special, I get enslaved to being a part of something I just normally avoid.

Like Keera and Volk, Jay was needed to simply inform me of a few key elements that would lead to inevitability, which was whatever Watcher(s) that was attached to that individual. For Keera, it was Demonico. For Volk, it was Angelus. For Jay, it was Xyr.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the ArchDuke of Arcadia which is currently at war with the faes? How silly of me to forget such an important and prominent individual! Argh…the mess, the stress, the dramas…you’d wonder why I haven’t cracked yet and gone to the crazy house. That’s because no matter how crazy everything is, I’m not crazy. I only sound crazy.

Sighs

That’s not even the tip of the iceberg…

It doesn’t make me feel better to know I’m consorting around with demons. That’s the farthest from my intentions. One day, I’d like to return home to where I belong. And that’s not with them. So, right now, I persist in only knowing that there’s a bigger purpose for all of this jumbled mess and it will get sorted out later.

The best thing out of all of this, I think, is that I can relate to a multitude of people out there. Whether that’s the really crazy ones or the ones who simply, like me at one point in time, is trying to find themselves and why things happen to them. Being able to tell someone it’s okay and that we don’t actually end up in the crazy house makes everything better somehow. And letting people know that they’re not alone–that made a big difference to me so it’s good to be able to say it back to someone going through a tough time and letting them know that it’ll be okay. It will be okay.

Or is it all just in my head?

That is the question of skeptics. If someone is close to me, or if I hold them in high regards, then the weirdness in my life likes to leech on to them. I guess it’s a sort of blackmail kind of thing, and I never respond well to such things. Friends of mine have experienced dreams with entities from my part of the sphere, some as horrific as torturous nightmares. A lot of my friends don’t know the weird side of me, so they don’t talk about what happens to them and I’d have to hear it to know it. Even when they do know, they would be equally weird too, so it would seem like something weird they’re going through and not an attack from the weirder things concerning me. To everyone out there who has been hurt, I’m sorry. Maybe half of the reason why I’m antisocial is to keep everything in a bubble away from other people.

Most of the time, I don’t affect people in that manner–in the bad way. The whole nightmares thing was settled. That was a specific individual trying to get my attention and I got it and took care of it. The rest isn’t so bad. Tyesha had dreams of me and her and our four other best friends during college in some giant group orgy with a mystery guy that actually invades my dreams from time to time. I don’t even have dreams like that with that guy! Lol. That was a long time ago. He was a Watcher. And he’s actually not a part of my life anymore. He was only there at a time I needed someone to understand and there was none in this world. I was a child. Hope to a kid is heaven. And I hoped.

I actually shouldn’t affect people much. Demonico, Angelus, and Xyr would never bother anyone out of their own free will and whatnot. But I bother people sometimes. It’s kind of hard not to. When you’ve dealt with Watchers your whole life, you notice it in others. Meaning, when you know demons, you notice them in others and around others. The difficult thing is going up to someone and saying, “do you know you’ve got something dangerous with you?”

It’s hypocritical of me to pull demons out of people, knowing that I have them too and I can’t get rid of mine. Well, I take that back. I’m sure I can get rid of mine. But having more is not something I want. It’s something I have to deal with for right now.

People can tell me, “my daughter speaks to angels” or “my deceased great grandmother watches and protects our family” or “god gave me this gift to help others”. In all reality, what they’re really saying is, “this is what I believe it is”. They don’t know for sure. There’s no guarantee that what they believe is what is real.

When I was eighteen, I used to visit this cute little metaphysical shop. One of the psychics there was holding this two day workshop on developing your psychic abilities. I was invited because I was curious in the paranormal and also because I had been going to that little store for the past two years, ever since I could drive and before I could drive

At the first day of the workshop was this cool hippie looking talkative mom and her much quieter sixteen year old. She talked on and on about how her daughter speaks to angels and how they ask her to help them in their quests and everything. I watched this girl’s mom saying all this stuff about her, being proud to have a daughter who had such a spiritual gift. The girl didn’t talk at all. And even back then, before Demonico, before Angelus, before Xyr, I knew. I knew what they were and how dangerous they were. Yet, I almost envied the girl. When I was sixteen, my mom wasn’t that cool and accepting. My mom just avoided my weirdness and pretended that it didn’t exist. Lol. And all day, I stared at this girl who never looked at me. After the workshop was over, and they left, I gathered my courage and decided to talk to her the next day and ask her what the whole “talking to angels” was about. They never came back and I never saw them again.

Real angels don’t need help from people. If they couldn’t do their job without us, then they wouldn’t be angels because angels are greater and more powerful than us. But, a Watcher, a fallen, would have people believe that they are needed, that they are special. Everyone wants to feel needed. Everyone wants to be special. And they prey on that human desire. Everyone wants to be wanted.

I met a woman by the name of Dr. Morgan. Whether she was a real doctor or not was another story. I saw her reading something about the angel Metatron so I asked her what her interest in angels was. She proceeded to tell me that she was Jewish (as Metatron actually isn’t an angel in the Holy Bible) and that God gave her a gift to heal people.

Now, as amazing as it is to be able to heal people, I had to ask, “how do you do it?” And she tells me that she will be walking down the street and she’ll see someone and she’ll point and say, “you have so-and-so disease/cancer/health problem. You have to take this and this and it’ll heal you.” Those people she points to do have so-and-so disease/cancer/health problem. They follow her directions and they are healed. They come back thanking her for helping to save their lives.

And as incredible as that sounds, I’m still the crazy idiot who have to make people think for themselves. So I say, “how do you know that you just didn’t really curse people with so-and-so disease/cancer/health problem and then cure them because you cursed them in the first place?” Her answer was simple. “Because God gave me this gift to heal, not to curse.”

So I said, “what if the power you are using isn’t from God, but from another source. How could you tell the difference?” She gets angry and declares, “because I’m helping people!”

And I nod and said, “yes, but in order to help those people, you first pointed at random and told them they had something which only you can cure. If you never told them and they never met you, would they still end up sick or would they have gone about their lives never being sick?” Oh, she got angry. “My gift to heal is from God and I know it!” is what she said.

“But do you really?” I asked. “How do you tell someone who’s never known God how to know that it’s God speaking to them or helping them and so on? Couldn’t I just come along and pretend that I’m God and they wouldn’t know the difference? How are you so sure?” Her last answer was, “because I know” and she didn’t speak to me for a while. My point was–how do you know if it’s God or not?

A little old church lady, Miss Addie, once told me that in order to know God, you had to study and learn about Him from the Bible. “It’s the same as counterfeiting bills,” she said. ” There are too many fake bills to know which is real. So in order to tell the real bill from the fake, the people study the real bill so much that they can spot a fake immediately.” And while that’s true and relateable to Christians in the United States where the Bible is widely spread freely, what about people in other countries? What about someone who don’t know God and has never known Him?

It’s amazing how much Christian literature I read and how much of it reads exactly like all the pagan and occultic books I’ve read when I was much younger. While it’s amazing that someone cries out to Jesus and Jesus immediately stands in their bedroom and they become saved…with my experiences and my knowledge, I’d be very wary if that was Jesus or if it was something else pretending to be Him.

After all, Jesus isn’t on earth. He’s not here. And He’s not going to pop up to save anyone. Scripture tells us so. (Look up John 16:7, Mark 16:19, Acts 7:55-56, Romans 8:34, Colossians 3:1, Hebrews 10:12, 12:2, 1 Peter 3:22; also look up 1 Corithians 1:7, 1 Thessalonians 2:19, 3:13, 5:23, 2 Thessalonians 2:1, 2 Peter 1:16)

While it seems unprofitable for demons to “save” people and convert them to Christianity, I question why such things happen and why it would be demonic and not of God. It’s a good thing that people are converted and accepts Christ, right? For a Christian, I’m terrible at my work. I’m terrible at believing. Why couldn’t I just believe that that sixteen year old really spoke to angels or that Dr. Morgan actually has a gift of healing from God? Why couldn’t I believe that the deceased spirit of my cousin who possessed his sister and told his family to go get saved and become Christians as something coming from God? What is wrong with saving people? Isn’t the whole point to convert and save others?

Many Christians will go to hell. I’m sure they’ll be surprised when it happens. Being saved isn’t an automatic ticket to heaven. Most will disagree with me here. Go back and read about the parable of the ten virgins in the Bible (Matthew 25:1-13). Please have understanding. Christians can’t do what they want to do and think that being saved actually saves them to a Just and Holy God who does indeed deal out justice. That is why being a Christian means being ready to die/leave at any moment when Jesus returns. There are many reasons why a lot of Christians will go to hell. Ignorance, mostly. Compromisation of their faith. Absolute rebellion and disobedience. The list goes on and on.

Stop oppressing my faith!” Christians say. “It’s God and I know it.” And then they call me a witch, not knowing I’m a Christian.

Stop being blind and ignorant,” I say. Most Christians don’t even know anything about their beliefs. Faith isn’t blind. That’s something people came up with. People come up with the term “blind faith” in regards to how Christians believe in a God they cannot see. (They also say that love is blind too.)

Faith, it is said, in Hebrews 11:1 is quoted as, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (KJV–all italics mine.)

Nowhere does it say that Christians should walk about blindly believing that everything which seems good to people is of God. That’s our mistake–in believing that what we think is good and wonderful has to be from God or of God. I know plenty of people who shout out how horrible God is and questioning how He can do such terrible things if He was such a loving God. And now, that has to say something too. Christians shouldn’t just disregard someone else’s opinion about God as merely an “opinion”.

God in the Bible is depicted as many things, vengeful is one of those things. Romans 12:19 says, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” (KJV–all italics mine.) Jealous is another. Exodus 34:14 says, “For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God:” (KJV–all italics mine.) And Nahum 1:2 says, “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” (KJV–all italics mine.)

I can keep quoting scripture, but that’s not the point. The point is that our knowledge and our wisdom isn’t sufficient to God’s. So how can we say that because something we perceived as good happened, that it came from God? Earlier, I said that, “Most demons are in fact, rather useful, rather truthful (to an extent for their own benefits), and rather nice. Yeah, I said it. They’re rather nice as in character wise kindness. After all, being mean and evil and murderous isn’t exactly a popular decision if their main purpose isn’t to kill, but to damn forever so they wouldn’t be alone when all that wonderful Judgement Day thing comes.” And I still stick by what I’ve said.

It surprises me how much people don’t want to know the truth. It’s like Cypher said in The Matrix, “If you’d told us the truth, we would’ve told you to shove that red pill right up your ass.” And that’s how people feel about it. Ignorance is bliss, but to how far will someone pretend and keep pretending that everything’s okay?

I don’t know. This isn’t my fight. I can’t save anyone. I can yell at the top of my lungs until I’m blue in the face, but most people won’t listen and those who will, will only disregard what I say for their own truths. I mean, I get it. I understand. Demonico is incredible and Angelus is amazing and Xyr, well, I haven’t tested him out yet, but he’s proven interesting being the only strangely blue thing I’ve seen (aside from Shaar who is blue, but a different kind)–I understand the entire fascination with all of it. And power? Yeah, you’re talking mega watts of power. Angelus can fry people on the other side of the planet. And Demonico can travel worlds and conquer them. I don’t know what Xyr is capable of yet, but having the ArchDuke as a vassal is pretty impressive. So I totally understand why people would rather choose what they have (or think they have) and not care about their future or their soul or anything else. I’m there with all of you. I completely understand and relate.

And yet, it’s so unhappy, isn’t it? Most of us are alone. Most of us are misunderstood. Most of us hurt and hurt deeply. And it’s sad. It’s so incredibly sad. We’re all so unhappy. Power can’t compare to love. And all the Watchers and all the Guardians and all the Fallen in all the worlds cannot ever fill up that empty hole inside of you.

That is truth. And many of us know it. Many of us deny it. Many of us try to hide it. But it’s still there. Emptiness. Loneliness. We try to fill it with so many things: knowledge, power, sex…it’s just not the same.

 

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