build & destroy

Speak without thinking, and your words can cut like a knife. Be wise, and your words can heal.
— 

Proverbs 12:18

Words have so much power to build or destroy. Think before you spit it out because sometimes your silence is much more helpful than your words.

ETERNAL PURPOSE AND HOPE FOR THE YOUTH AND FUTURE

remember to remember this message when it all is to hard to bare, or upon child birth

to be rid of the depressional & violent state of mind we all are naturally born with is to immediately understand and acquire purpose, and evolve accordingly

the purpose of the human mind, is creation and evolution, how will you build or destroy this world? how will you evolve accordingly to your ideal vision and goal/purpose, with purpose there is a lack of attention to anything other than your dreams and goals with the determination of the individual human & structure and belief built around that individual human being or “brain”


the purpose will & can always be, create, destroy, evolve, but beyond anything and everything their must always be purpose and that is for you as an individual to create and understand


now here’s the fun part that gets rid of the depression,

what do you want to create? what do you want to be my children? enjoy your journey, pass this onto your children & your childrens children


I love you all, my energy is with you,

- xxxtentacion

when i was like 11 or so and had just read the hobbit for the first time i remember i was constantly like every day building a mountain out of sand or dirt, bigger and bigger every time but barren all around it, for this was The Lonely Mountain, and i’d go on a hunt to find a small beautiful white stone to be the Arkenstone, so i could bury it inside the mountain. and then i’d stomp the whole thing to pieces, bc i was pissed, i was fucking pissed bc i’d spent my whole life thinking The Hobbit was supposed to be the happy-go-lucky prequel with a super uplifting ending, but instead thorin died and bilbo had to go home and make rlly dumb jokes about how all was well when all was very fucking clearly not well. so i had this ritual almost every day for like a whole summer and i just remembered that.

Stories

never submitted anything to a blog like this before and it’s not going to be near as good as everyone else’s but I couldn’t get rid of the idea

Back home, you used to be known for storytelling. Not the wild and unbridled force of creation that builds and destroys entire worlds in moments, that fearsome superpower – though you have that too, but that is for you and you alone thus far, and you haven’t gotten the courage to share it – but rather the ability to retell a memory in the most entertaining way possible.

People seemed to like it when you took your memories, pieces of yourself, and told them as a story. Back home they did, at least.
At school, your roommate mutters something about not sharing so much personal information as she turns her socks inside out. In the classroom – where you can never quite remember what you’ve learned, but you always leave with more stories creeping about in your mind – occasionally students listen with a gaze just a little too sharp, the feeling of more eyes than you can see on your back.

But storytelling is in your blood, it’s part of who you are, and so you tell your stories. Happy ones, funny ones, tales of adventure and mischief that you thought were mundane until you grew older. Actually, compared to Elsewhere, they are mundane.

There’s one story you haven’t told yet, one that everyone in your family pretends not to know. It’s the tale of why you came to Elsewhere, the tale of the Thing you saw as a child, that took your cousin when the two of you played in a forest, and promised to return for you. Why you decided to go to college upstate and not attend the local university. You thought you were escaping the madness. (Sometimes you see the shadows at the corner of the stairwell and hear horns on the quad at night and wonder if you leapt from the frying pan to the fire)

It’s why you twine iron wire through your curls in decorative spires and carry salt packets sewn into your clothes, and carry old things from your grandmothers that you aren’t sure will help you (but grandmothers can be so very stubborn)

You’ve started to hear things on campus. Students who disappear and come back Different, if they come back at all, or other students who make the brave but foolish journey Underhill to rescue one of their own. Everything you’ve learned since coming here suggests that asking about it is pointless, if not outright dangerous, but at the same time you can’t help wondering if they’d know anything about the Thing that took your cousin. You know that one day you’ll find one of the students who made it There and Back Again, and when you do, you’ll tell your story.

Close to autumn you find yourself in one of the thin places on campus. It was an accident, you were simply too preoccupied with an upcoming exam to notice the air turn unseasonably warm and humid, and before you know it, you’ve walked three times the length of what the hall should’ve been, and each time you find yourself back at the lockers, the air is warmer, heavier, and the ground is softer. Somehow you instinctively understand that you must keep moving. To stop here would be a grave mistake. So you keep walking, and the air feels like the breath of something huge and moist, and you’re pretty sure there’s mud squelching beneath your feet now but you really don’t want to look.

It’s when you do look that the tiles, soft as mud and unyielding as stone, swallow your feet to the ankles and you are trapped. You curse your foolishness in three different languages – two of which are fictional and one of which was invented by you. This one feels stronger, and when you say “Flames take it!” you can almost feel a spark of phantom heat by your legs – and hear something laugh in the darkness.

“You are stuck,” it says.

You demand to be set free, even as you twine a strand of iron-wrapped around your hair and clutch your necklace – from your grandmother, a tiny bottle filled with salt and mustard seeds. You’re not sure if mustard seeds have any significance or if she just liked them – and try to look anywhere but shifting, oily shadows that smell of dust and moss. You suspect that demanding anything from one of Them will be a fruitless endeavor, but you’re frightened now and the liquid tile is sucking you down further. It’s up to your knees here. It occurs to you that you might die like this, that you might disappear just like your cousin and all those other students disappeared.

“What will you give me?” It asks.

Before you can think, you answer, “A story.”

There’s a bubbling silence before It makes a hiss that sounds too pleased to mean anything good. “Yes,” It says, “A story. But I’ve heard all yours. Make it one I haven’t heard before.”

This is tricky. The wrong story could mean death, and when It says It’s heard all your stories It probably wasn’t exaggeration. You could tell It one of your original tales, the stories of pirates and dragons and giants, but those feel too personal. There is too much of you in those stories, and that is your world, with your characters. You can’t help feeling a bit protective of them.
That just leaves The Story.

So you tell It a story about two children playing in a wood. About a thing like a skinless horse with the torso of a man grafted into its back. About fleeing in terror as the Thing chased you both through the trees, and your cousin’s squeal of fright as it grabbed him, just missing you as you splashed across the shallow creek. You go into greater detail than you ever have before, telling It things you didn’t even tell your family before they called the police.
You remember the color of the Thing’s rolling eyes and glistening muscle.
You remember the way its head seemed to wobble back and forth like it was attached to the wrong body.
You remember it promising that water would not always save you.
You remember knowing that running water might be the answer, even if you don’t have the question it goes to yet.
You didn’t want to tell this story, but you can’t stop the words now no matter how hard you try.

All is silent when you finish your tale, and for a moment you fear you were talking to the air. Then, with a slurp, the tiles spit you back out again and you’re standing on solid ground.

“That is a good story,” It says, “I think I’ll keep it.” with these cryptic words and directions to simply follow the hallway, he leaves you and you find yourself running all the way to the stairwell. You thank your lucky stars that you got out none the worse for wear and you are astonished that you managed it at all.

When you tell your roommate, she is concerned. “What did you give Them in exchange for Their help?” she asks you.

“Just a story,” You answer.

Which story? You have a million.”

“It was the one about-” and you stop. Not because you never decided whether or not to tell your roommate. Not because you’re preoccupied or distracted.
No.
The words wedge in your throat, sticking to the back of your tongue, coating your tonsils like thick dust. They won’t come out. For a moment you’re afraid that you might not be able to speak at all. So you try to tell a different story, and that comes out loud and clear. But when you try to explain again that you told the story of how Something took your cousin away – presumably Underhill if not someplace worse – your tongue seems to shrivel in your mouth and the words lodge in the soft parts of your throat like little needles.

That’s a good story. I think I’ll keep it.

It isn’t your story to tell anymore. For once, words do not obey you. Your roommate sees your rising panic, sees the tears welling up in your eyes, and takes pity on you.

“Tell me a different story,” she says, “A made-up one.”

She used to scold you about telling stories all the time, so at first you don’t understand what she’s doing. Then she asks, “What story didn’t you tell?”
The rather obvious wink when she says this gives you and idea.

Words are your tools and they always have been. Until today, they have always obeyed you. You know how to make a truth sound like a lie and a lie like truth. And so you carefully craft a lie so close to the truth, using characters so close to being you and your cousin, that you are sure your roommate understands.

Forever after this, you season your stories with lies in case you must trade them, so that the truth remains yours to tell. You learn say nearly anything and keep it just close enough to fact to fool someone.

You don’t realize that you’re learning to talk like Them until you find one trapped in the snare an upperclassman set near the library, all salt and iron. It yowls like a cat and screams like a child and its three hands scrabble for purchase. It wants out, you know this.
You cock your head and say, “What will you give me if I release you?

It’s only fair, you think. A story for a story.
You’re playing a dangerous game.

[x]

How do the bad guys in Star Wars even get loans to build all their planet-destroying laser warships anyway?

Snoke: “Yeah, guys. I need money to build another Starkiller Base.”

Intergalactic Bank: “Well, what happened to the last one?”

Snoke: “It got blown up by the rebels.”

Intergalactic Bank:  “Didn’t that happen to the last two death stars as well?”

Snoke: “Yeah, but it’s cool.  Kylo Ren and Hux assure me they have it covered. Fourth time the charm!”

Intergalactic Bank:  “…”  

Crush

It’s ironic how we can feel crushed over rejection from a crush. Well, maybe that’s why they call it a crush. Nine times out of ten, we crush on people we barely even know. Our minds pick up the littlest details & unconsciously build them up to be better than what they probably are. We create a illusion primarily based off of potential; characteristics & emotions that do not exist, or at least not yet. Many times we crush on those who are way out of our league. The feeling isn’t reciprocated & we’re momentarily crushed; not because we’re genuinely heartbroken, but because our illusion is destroyed. *Tip: Do not become infatuated with potential! -{YR, Simply-Complx}

People are often unreasonable,
illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind,
people may accuse you of selfish ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful,
you will win some false friends and true enemies;
Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and frank,
people may cheat you;
Be honest anyway.
What you spend years building,
someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness,
they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today,
people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have,
and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis,
it is between you and God;
It was never between you and them anyway.
—  Mother Teresa
Twenty Questions for Mun or Muse

1. What’s your favourite colour?
2. What does your bedroom look like?
3. If a song played every time you walked in the room, what would it be?
4. What type of weather are you most like and why?
5. Run, hide, or fight?
6. What is your zodiac sign?
7. What should your zodiac sign be?
8. Arizona, California, New York, or Iowa?
9. What is your favourite painting?
10. Favourite sculpture?
11. Favourite band?
12. Create, build on, or destroy?
13. Used books or new?
14. Do you have any tattoos? What are they?
15. Favourite book quote?
16. Why do you think you exist?
17. Describe a physical representation of your mind.
18. Rotten, spoiled, or stale?
19. Mint, cinnamon or bubblegum?
20. Why is your name your name? Are there any stories on how you got it (make one up or something I guess)?

When I was 8 years old, I stumbled across this strange looking cartoon with a whiny girl who had impossibly large eyes and a talking black cat. What the heck was this?

But at the end of half an hour, I was hooked.

It’s silly to say a show is life-changing, but I’d be remiss if I said Sailor Moon was anything but. Even growing up in one of the most “progressive” countries in the world, Sailor Moon was revolutionary for me, and still is.

Here you have a girl who loves frilly things, and cries when life gets hard, is klutzy and has an unabashed love of all things sweet. But she was NEVER ashamed to be anything other than who she was.

And it just so happened that she was the most powerful being in the universe, too. She had the ability to build and destroy worlds by simply wishing it to be so. And while she did have a gorgeous prince at her side, she didn’t need him to protect her. He was simply there because he wanted to be. Because he loved a girl who had changed his entire world.

Usagi loved everyone. Without hesitation. And was willing to risk everything time and time again to prove that every life had value, a complete contradiction to the greater good mentality that is so prominent, today.

She stood up for what she believed in, and, yeah, she was scared out of her mind sometimes, but who isn’t? And that was, perhaps, the most powerful thing about Usagi. She wasn’t some mythical creature you could only envision in your head. She was YOU. She was ME. She was beautifully flawed, and loved herself anyway.

If that’s not a life-changing lesson, I don’t know what is. 

2

“Value your parabatai,“ he said. “For it is a precious bond. All love is precious. It is why we do what we do. Why do we fight demons? Why are they not fit custodians of this world? What makes us better? It is because they do not build, but destroy. They do not love, but hate only. We are human and fallible, we Shadowhunters. But if we did not have the capability to love, we could not guard humans; we must love to guard them. My parabatai, he loved like few ever could love, with all and everything. I see you are like that too; it burns more brightly in you than the fire of Heaven”

He was the dark lord,
Who stole away the bride of spring
Of summer
Of warmth
And infused starlight into her veins
And coated her in galaxies.
He was the dreamer,
The wisher,
Reaching his hands out for something that could not belong to him,
She was his salvation-
And he would destroy worlds for her.
He would lay his kingdom at her feet,
Drop to his knees where the stars and mountains lingered,
And offer himself up to her-
Unworthy, death incarnate-
He’d pluck every star from the sky,
Break down every wall,
To tell her that he could hardly breathe when she moved
And he would rather die than be without her.
He spent all his time dreaming, dreaming, dreaming,
That when she told him that she loved him, all he could say was,
I am unworthy but I will build and break and destroy and create for you.
For you, I kneel.
For you, anything.
Everything.
Always.
—  Rhysand. (via @brizzlewritesthings)