cradle to a grave

The Signs: Dark Rulerships

Dark and unusual things over which each sign rules.

Aries: accidents, barren places and burned ground, cuts, doorways, insomnia, nosebleeds, skulls, surgery, thistles, trances, wolves

Taurus: coins, dogma, strangulation, gluttony, psychometry, suspect and unsafe places

Gemini: breath, pupils, rumors, chests, crystals, hounds, ribs, forgetting, pillars

Cancer: blood serum, graves, onyx, cellars, cradles, marshes, night flowers, glass, wells

Leo: fortresses and lairs, arrogance, chamomilla, ballrooms, circuses and playgrounds, vomiting

Virgo: black cats, fractured bones, libraries, intestines, conceit and inferiority, sick rooms, parasites

Libra: vines and lilies, marble, trials, alcoves and closets, vertebrae, forests, manipulation, attics

Scorpio: cesspools, bile, funerals and embalmers, magic, foul odors and stagnant water, blood red, vermin and mobs

Sagittarius: the spine, altars, visions and prophecy, incense, holy books, arteries

Capricorn: decay, abandoned places, thorns and nightshade, bones, coffins and mortuaries, gates, acid and ashes

Aquarius: ether and blood, radio static, teeth, rebellions, black pearls, nuclear weapons

Pisces: abbeys, enemies, hospitals and anesthetics, veils, outcasts and charlatans, clairvoyance, gasoline, mazes, falsity, self-undoing

NWY backer ficlet #1

I wrote altogether seven ficlets for Not Without You Anthology backers earlier this year. One of them I posted (expanded) as Brunch brunch baby, and two are under edits for expansion, but the rest I’m gonna dump here.


“I made you a sweater,” Bucky says as he materializes next to the couch and dumps something light and blue on Steve’s head.

Steve flails a little, taken by surprise, until he can untangle the warm fabric on his face, put his book down, and take a look. It’s a thin cable-knit sweater in a really nice shade of blue, and the yarn is incredibly soft when Steve pets it a little.

“What’s this, Buck?” he asks, fascinated by the fluffiness of the yarn.

“Sweater,” Bucky grunts and stalks to the armchair, curling up in it, hackles raised like an angry cat. He’s been skittish and in a bad mood lately, avoiding Steve and keeping to his room, where he’s undoubtedly been knitting this whole time. Bucky has his ups and downs, and Steve’s used to giving him space, but crafting is a new and not unwelcome development.

“It’s early June,” Steve says, still petting the knit. “It’s not exactly sweater weather.”

“If you don’t like it, you can just say so,” Bucky snaps, leaps up from the armchair and tries to snag the sweater back, but Steve pulls it away before he can grab it and go back to his room. Bucky looks pissed off, but there’s genuine upset in the downturned curve of his mouth, and Steve realizes he’s been kind of a tool.

“Hey, hey, Bucky,” Steve says, tucking the sweater between himself and the back of the couch and taking Bucky’s hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that.”

Bucky looks down and away, his body tight and coiled like a spring, but he doesn’t shake Steve’s loose hold off.

“It’s really nice, baby,” Steve says softly, sincerely, and scoots back a little so that he can gently tug Bucky to sit in the vee of his legs. Bucky comes easily enough so that Steve knows the closeness isn’t unwelcome. When Steve carefully wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls him against his chest, it’s like flipping a switch: all tension goes out of Bucky’s body, and he sags back, tired and pliant, feeling small and vulnerable in Steve’s arms.

Steve kisses the crown of Bucky’s head, inhaling the familiar smell of his shampoo. Up close the shadows under Bucky’s eyes are deep and livid like bruises, like he hasn’t slept in days, and Steve’s heart breaks a little at the thought of him sitting in his room, knitting away the dark hours of the night. “Thank you, I love it.”

“It’s baby alpaca,” Bucky mumbles and burrows closer, tucking his head under Steve’s chin. He’s starting to slur a little, drifting towards sleep. “Liked the color.”

Steve squeezes Bucky a little, kisses his hair again, and settles in for a nap.

Organised Chaos

Tina: *looks at Newt’s desk in horror* His desk is a mess. How does he find anything?

Graves: It’s like this. Newt, babe, can you hand me that DeVere report?

Newt: *pulls out report from a pile and hands it to Graves while keeping his attention on the baby dragon on his lap*

Graves: And I need that draft on how to deal with dragons when my aurors encounter them during a sting operation.

Newt: *picks up a folder from Merlin knows where and hands it over*

Graves: Oh, I’m looking for one more thing. 

Newt: What’s that, Perry?

Graves: My kiss. 

Newt: *stands up, dragon egg carefully cradled in arms, leans over desk and kisses Graves on the cheek* I’m making dinner tonight. Chinese or Italian?

Graves: Anything as long as I can get it or don’t get food poisoning. *turns to Tina* It’s organized chaos, Goldstein. Organized chaos. 

__

Later, at Graves house

Graves: *looks at the Chinese, Indian, Italian, Filipino and African food set out on the table* Organized chaos. 

earth an·gel

/ərTH ˈānjəl/

noun

  1. I threw myself into the void, but the void placed me gently back on shore and said darling you will be remembered, not for who you are, but you failed to be. So, I told the void fuck off and dived right back in, these seawater lungs gulping down lifeblood, this is a stinging baptismal rebirth.
  2. I wake up to fluorescent lights in the hospital, and  desperately rip out needles they injected in me, devil tendrils pulsing in life I do not want. Ten hands hold me down, and I scream this is my last rite, the doctor says that is a classic case of delusions of grandeur to the scared interns and there is a prick on my neck and everything goes dark.
  3. The galaxy is eating me, and this non-oxygenated blood circles in my lungs, making my heart and everything so devastatingly blue blue blue, I am so daringly mortal, in my self-destructive tendencies, that these veins can’t take any more pinprick points before they burst. The galaxy whispers this is how a junkie looks, this is how an angel self-destructs. 
  4. I claw my way out of my own lungs, in a different world, my hospital gown hangs off me as my back bends and breaks, I rise to the ceiling and levitate, the doctor says that is a classic case of demonic possession to the scared interns, my head spins 360, my spine cracks and bees erupt from my mouth I am not a classic case, I am the original Lilith, my serpent tongue speaks. The nurse checks off unknown species on my chart and continues on. 
  5. Gabriel draws me up from the water, and I can swear, he reminds me of someone I know are you Hermes? He smiles in another life some knew me by that name.  In that moment I remember, and I know he is not taking me somewhere I want to be so I rip myself from his grasp, leaving twin bruises on my arms, in another world I was Icarus and the sun was my beloved, but in this one I made my vows with the ocean abyss. Where are you going? He calls after my plummeting body, home home home. 
  6. Is your home not heaven? the sky asks as I descend through it. In another world maybe, but it never truly was. 
  7. I hit the earth hard, dazed and mouth full of soil, I think this is home. With its glided mortality, and chocolate chunk brownie ice-cream. With its blood-soaked kisses, and barbed wire love,with its sunshine lungs and radiation smiles, in its imperfections, this is home in the way the ocean stings against my cut wrists, this is home in the way I have bled for it, this is home in the way it gave me shelter when my wings were gone. This is home in the way it embraced me when all I  had was a cage on my back. Welcome back it says, welcome back. 
  8. Who have you become, the void whispers, she stops and corrects herself what have you become? All I know is that these veins are no longer glowing, that this halo is broken and gone, that these wings cannot fly no longer, all I know is that this earth is my cradle, my mother, my grave. All I know is that I am stronger than ever before. I tell the void fuck off. 
  9. I am no longer what I was before.
2

When they handed her the babe, and she saw that he was not a girl, the first thing Lyanna said was, “Rhaegar would have been disappointed.”

Arthur Dayne looked up with surprise. “Prince Rhaegar would have been overjoyed with the birth of his son, my lady.”  

You know nothing. You know nothing about your prince, you stupid, stupid fool.

She had known nothing too, when she took Rhaegar’s hand and fled with him. She had mistaken need for love, obsession for desire.  

He wanted me!

He wanted a broodmare to bear him a daughter, another Visenya to complete the holy trinity and fulfill his precious prophecy.

I wanted him.

She wanted to break free from the shackles of a life received; a life determined and bound from cradle to grave, a prison she could never escape. She had believed him to be a kindred spirit, a fellow prisoner, desperately yearning for the freedom that often seemed tantalizingly close, but always, always, out of reach.

And now here she was, in a true prison, a prisoner to Rhaegar’s Kingsguard, men loyal still to their dead prince.

And there he was, dead and bloodied at the Trident, without a Visenya to make a third head for his dragon.

She wondered if that had been his last thought, or perhaps even his last words. Visenya. My precious Visenya.

Wages of sin, some would call it. Payment for all the bloodshed and the deaths. They deserved worse, some would say, the both of them.

Our child deserves better. An innocent, who could no more choose his father and mother than he could choose the moment of his birth.

“Let me go to my brother,” Lyanna demanded of Arthur Dayne, before her child was born, when she had strength still to stay on her feet.

“Your brother fights for Robert Baratheon. What do you think they would do to a child of Prince Rhaegar?”

“Ned fights for our murdered father and our murdered brother!”

“Even so, my lady.“

“Then find me a ship. I will go to the Free Cities. No one will need be troubled by me or by my child ever again.”

The Free Cities. That was where she had been led to believe they were heading, she and Rhaegar, when she took his hand and relinquished everything else. A new life, a new beginning, away from those who would seek to imprison them in a gilded cage.

Fool! I was a fool. She had thought herself brave and resourceful, but in truth, she had been a foolish child playing a foolish game, steered by a dark prince playing a darker game.

“We swore an oath to Prince Rhaegar, to stay at Tower of Joy and protect you and the child you are carrying. Do you think my sworn brothers and I would not rather be by Prince Rhaegar’s side, fighting this war?”

“I’m sure you would. And you should do so, immediately. Let me go, and then you can go to your precious prince.”

“No, my lady. I will not betray my oath. I cannot!”

“What do you think King Aerys would do to my child? A child with Stark blood, traitor’s blood in his eyes.”

Arthur Dayne looked uneasy. “The king would welcome his grandchild.”

A lie, and Arthur Dayne knew it too, Lyanna surmised from the way he quickly turned his head away, unable to sustain the weight of her accusing gaze.

6

Polish poets killed in the Warsaw Uprising

1. Krystyna Krahelska (24 March 1914 – 2 August 1944)
2. Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński (22 January 1921 – 4 August 1944)
3. Leon Zdzisław Stroiński (29 November 1921 – 16 August 1944)
4. Tadeusz Gajcy (8 February 1922 – 16 August 1944)
5. Józef Szczepański (30 November 1922 – 10 September 1944)
6. Jan Romocki (17 April 1925 – 18 August 1944)

(Two other soldier poets, Andrzej Trzebiński and Wacław Bojarski, were killed in 1943).

*

Apparently, the Polish nation is destined to shoot at the enemy with diamonds…
(Stanisław Pigoń)

*

I loved like you now but I was given
a heart too small for futile loving
because my time that you give names to
was marred by raging death and crippling terror.

(…)

A mossy wall stands guard nearby
over the peace of those with honest faces
who measured love with blades of weapons,
trusting their hands, and who have died.
Their simple names will cast a shadow
on mocking tombstones; one still can hear
the sounds of marching, swinging bullets –
the graves and cradles of the fallen.

(from “To You in the Future” [„Do potomnego”] by Tadeusz Gajcy)

(the quote and excerpts translated by me)

disgustingly fluffy ficlet #1

@misspaperjoker prompted me to write a tooth-rottingly fluffy ficlet to cheer myself up. It’s so far successfully cheered three people up, so here have it:


“It’s gone below freezing during the night,” Steve says as he gets in, carrying an armful of firewood. He’s glad he put the gloves on before going out.

“Hmm?” Bucky’s standing in front of the old stove, still looking half-asleep; he’s wrapped up in a huge blanket, yawning, with only his fluffy hair and woolen sock-clad feet visible. There’s a pot of water on the stove; Bucky looks like he’s waiting for it to boil so that he can make coffee.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Have you ever considered a beauty and the beast style story with newt as beauty and Percival as the beast, grindelwald was the sorcerer, and the aurors are the enchanted objects? Idk I saw the movie and I've been thinking about it a lot. Like everyone in town except Jacob and Theseus thinking Newt's weird (especially bc he isn't married) and then him stumbling upon the castle and falling in love with this grumpy beast idk it's just so \(^-^)/ !

Ya know, I hadn’t thought about it… but this artist’s gorgeous illustration definitely makes it plausible, doesn’t it? I love that it’s Newt who stumbles on the castle though. Like, he isn’t taken prisoner. Percy wants him to go because what the fuck, boy, I am not beautiful I am a monster why aren’t you afraid of me - you should be

“There’s beauty in everything,” Newt says gently, cradling Graves’ massive claws in his hands. “Just as much beauty in a wildflower as there is in teeth and claws and fangs. Just a different kind of beauty. A fatal kind of beauty. A kind heart wrapped in knives. Who did this to you?”

Graves yanks his paw back.

“Does it matter?”

“Not to me,” Newt says, “You are who you are, whether you’re covered in fur or skin you’re Percival Graves and that’s all that matters to me. The question is, does it matter to you?”

Graves stills. He thinks of what it was like to be a man. To be a prince, before Grindelwald came and snatched his kingdom away from him. The plans he once had to make his kingdom great. To make sure his people’s crops flourished and their livestock prospered and their bellies were filled. To make sure their economy grew and their lands were secure.

He thinks of what it is now. Of what Grindelwald did to it after he murdered his father and performed the witchcraft that had bound him beneath fur and fear and fangs. 

“It did, once,” Graves growls softly.

Newt smiles.

“Once?”

Why do people still take drugs?

The drugs are as old as humanity itself, and they certainly fulfill something of immense value. I am against drugs, but my being against drugs is for the same reason as for thousands of years people have been addicted to the drugs.

It may look very strange. The drugs are capable to give you a hallucinatory experience beyond the mundane world. That is the experience that is being searched through meditation.

Meditation brings you to the real experience, and drug gives you just a hallucination, a dream-like experience but very similar. To meditate is difficult.

The drug is cheap. But the attraction for drugs is spiritual.

Man is not satisfied with his mundane existence. He wants to know something more. He wants to be something more. Just the ordinary life seems so flat, so meaningless, that if this is all then suicide seems to be the only way out of it. It gives no ecstasy, no joy. On the contrary, it goes on piling you up with more and more misery, anxiety, disease, old age and, finally, death.

From the cradle to the grave, the ordinary life is just a drag. People go on living it because they are cowards. Otherwise, they will commit suicide. They don’t have the courage enough to commit suicide. But this is not something one can rejoice in.

You can drag on but you cannot call it living. There is no dance in it, no color in it. It is just a vast desert spreading as far as you can see, with no oasis anywhere.

I am reminded of one of the dreams of Leo Tolstoy. It is a rare dream. It is also unique that it went on repeating continuously almost his whole life. As long as he could remember, the dream was happening. And the dream is very strange.

In his dream he sees a vast desert and two gumboots without anybody in them, just the two gumboots without any feet inside them, are walking. They go on walking and they go on walking, and there is no end to this walk. The desert is endless. And he always woke up perspiring, his heart beating louder, gripped* with great fear.

Without going to any psychoanalyst, he knew the meaning. He himself was a genius. He knew that this is his life, this is not a dream. It is not even symbolic. It is exactly his life. Where he is going? Wherever he goes he will end into the grave. Who is going he does not know. The gumboots are empty.

He is unaware of anybody inside. He is unacquainted of the person who is wearing the gumboots. He is invisible. All that is visible is the gumboots and the desert, and the tedious journey, pointless, meaningless.

This is the reason that drugs have attracted man since the very beginning. And they have at least given him a temporary relief. Only a few people tried meditation. And my own understanding is, these people also tried meditation because drugs at a point become useless. You become immune.

In the beginning, they give you tremendous experiences, but soon they become almost part of your body chemistry. Then if you don’t take them you are in trouble. Your whole chemistry wants them. If you take them, you gain nothing.

You go on increasing the doses.

In India where the experiments with drugs must have been the oldest, because the oldest scripture in the world is Rigveda*, the religious source book of the Hindus, it talks about a certain drug, Somras*. Because of this Somras*, Aldous Huxley has called the ultimate drug one day, when LSD is refined and there is no side effect, it will be called Soma. The name is from Rigveda*.

Rigveda* according to Hindus is ninety thousand years old, and nobody has been able to prove that they are wrong because their arguments for its old age are almost irrefutable. They are not logical, otherwise, it would have been easy.

They are astronomical.

In Rigveda* there is a description of a certain combination of stars that had happened according to modern astronomers also ninety thousand years before.

Now there is no way for the people who were writing Rigveda* to describe it in absolute detail unless they have seen it.

Now, this is such an evidence that you cannot do anything about it. The astronomers say for ninety thousand years that combination has not been again in the sky. So certainly whoever was writing it was fully aware of the combination of stars at that time.

For ninety thousand years Hindus have accepted drugs almost as part of their religious ceremonies. It was only under British regime that drugs created trouble, but because they were part of a religious ritual, which is the ancientmost religion in the world, even the British government was afraid to interfere with it. It continued. Even in my childhood, all drugs were available in the market. There was no question of any illegality. And every school of Hindu religion was using drugs, but they were using it in a very scientific way.

They will give the drug in a certain quantity, create a certain experience in the man, and then when he will come out of it will tell him that, “This was only an illusion. It was simply because of the drug, because of the chemistry, your mind experienced.

"Would you like to experience it in its reality? If the illusion is so beautiful, you can think how much more the reality would be. And the experience created by the drug lost for few hours, and again you are back to the same old rotten world.

But if the experience is real, it is yours forever. You never lose it. It is not something that has happened to you, it is something that was already in you; you have discovered it.”

So I don’t see that it was wrong to use drugs in this way. In fact, this should be the approach around the world for the modern man.

And now we have more advanced drugs, synthetically made, and we are capable of purifying them more. We can make drugs which have no bad effects at all. We can make drugs which are not addictive. And we can have in every hospital, in every university, a certain department which teaches people how to move from drug to meditation.

Just to talk about meditation remains simply verbal. There is no way through the words to give you any experience. But drugs are immensely useful. The words can explain to you what meditation is, the drug can give you a hallucinatory experience of it. And then you can be initiated into a method. And now you will not be moving in the darkness. Now you know that something… if an ordinary drug can do so much, then there must be some way to find an authentic transformation, to experience it without any dependence on anything.

So the drug simply opens up a door and helps you to understand that man’s life and his experience need not be confined to the ordinary mundane world - he can fly high towards the stars - that he is capable of knowing things which are not ordinarily available.

Under proper guidance - medical, meditational - drugs can be of immense help.

I said I am against drugs because if they become addictive then they will be the most destructive for your journey towards the self. Then you become enchanted into hallucinations. And because it is cheap - no effort has to be done, just you have to go on taking bigger and bigger doses….

In India, it came to a point…. Still today there are monasteries where they keep poisonous snakes because the people had become so addicted to all kinds of drugs that no drug has any effect on them. They can take any dose and they will remain normal. The only thing that gives them a little experience is a bit on their tongue by a cobra. That will be death to anybody, but to them, it is a beautiful drug experience.

Sometimes it has happened that these people become addicted even to cobra bites. Their whole bloodstream becomes poisonous. And it is on record, and once it happened in front of me, that a cobra was brought to bite. The Cobra did it perfectly well on the tongue and died.

The man had become so poisonous… because the cobra is not poisonous in his whole body. He has simply a small gland which has poison, and that gland is just in his mouth. So whenever the cobra bites someone, he immediately turns upside down, because the gland in his mouth has the opening up. He will bite; that is not dangerous. That is simply making your blood available. And then he will turn over to pour the poison on your blood.

The bite is not really poisonous. The poison comes from the gland which hangs above his tongue in the mouth. It has to hang that way, otherwise, the poison cannot remain in it. So he turns upside down. The poison starts flowing out of the gland into the wounds that he has made by his bite. But before he could do that, biting the man was enough to get poisoned himself.

For thousands of years, people have been using drugs. Moralists, religious people, governments have been trying prohibition absolutely unsuccessfully.

And I don’t see that they can ever succeed.

The only way to succeed is what I am suggesting. Rather than prohibiting drugs, let the scientists find out better drugs which give deeper and more psychedelic, more colorful, more ecstatic experiences and without any side effects, and without any addiction. And these should be available in the universities, in the colleges, in the hospitals - wherever some kind of guidance is possible, that the person is not prohibited, is allowed total freedom to use anything that he wants.

And we use his experience to help him grow towards some authentic process so that he can start experiencing something far greater than any drug can give.

And only then he can compare that the first one was just a dream, and this is a reality, and the first one was just cheating myself through chemistry, ‘And the first one was not helping me in my spiritual growth. It was, in fact, preventing the growth, keeping me addicted and retarded’. The second one goes on growing, and now he starts gathering the courage to explore more.

He was never aware that these experiences are possible, that these experiences are not just fiction.

So drug can be used in a very beneficial way, to make the person realize that this is a hallucination, and the hallucination is so satisfying, would not you like to try the real? We have the real drug also.

I call it meditation. And it takes you to the uttermost blissful experience possible.

Then only drugs become useless for you.

If we want humanity to get free of drugs, then meditation is the way. But before we can get free of them, they are very important and can be used to introduce people to meditation.

So this paranoia about drugs is not helpful to humanity. You can make drugs illegal, it makes no change. In fact, they become more attractive, more exciting.

Particular to the youth they become a challenge.

I am amazed sometimes that, is man going ever to learn even the ABC of human psychology? The same stupidity goes on which God did with Adam and Eve:

prohibition. Don’t eat the fruit of this tree. But that becomes an invitation. That becomes a challenge. And thousands of years have passed, but the authority figures are still in the same mood: don’t use the drug, otherwise imprisonment for five years, seven years. And nobody bothers that drugs are being made available in jails. Just you have to pay a little higher price. And the people who come out of the jail are not cured. They go back again because … the reason is the drug gives them something which your society is not giving.

They are ready to destroy their health, their body, their whole life becomes a mess, but still, that drug gives them something which your society does not give.

So rather than preventing them, create a society which gives something which is better.

I have been fighting in India with one of the most idiotic prime ministers India had, Morarji Desai. He is absolutely fanatic, is not ready to listen to any reasonable argument. Alcohol has to be prohibited. He prohibited the alcohol.

That does not make any change. People start making alcohol but that proves dangerous. Thousands of people died because the alcohol they drank was poisonous, was not made rightly. The people who were making it had no idea what they are making.

And this has been happening around the world. Once in a while, some idiot comes in and tries to prohibit, but nobody asks why people drink alcohol.

(Tape side B) Your life gives them nothing. You suck them of their blood and in return what they get? No joy, just anxieties upon anxieties. Safe alcohol makes them relax for few hours, sing a song or have a little dance - or a fight in the pub.

But for few hours they are transported from your world. The very attraction proves that your society is wrong, not that alcohol is wrong.

Your society should help people to dance, to sing, to rejoice, to love. The alcohol will disappear. The other drugs are far better than alcohol.

There are many drugs which have less bad after-effects, particularly synthetic drugs taken in a right atmosphere, in a right mood. For example, LSD. It simply enhances your mood, it does not do anything to you. If you are in a despair the LSD experience will become a nightmare. But if you are feeling a well-being, that is the time to take LSD. Then it can give you a really positive ecstatic experience, although it will be hallucinatory.

But if you don’t know the real, it looks almost the real. Even a man like Aldous Huxley, one of the most intelligent men of this generation, thought that through LSD he has achieved the same experience as Gautam Buddha, Kabir, Ramakrishna.

If you don’t know the real, naturally you cannot call it hallucinatory. It is so real.

Huxley had no experience of meditation. He has really no right to say such a thing. You can say such a thing only when you have experienced both, that it is the same experience as Kabir.

Kabir never used any drug. His experience was purely of meditation. On what grounds Huxley can say it is the same experience? He does not know the experience of Kabir. I can understand that he has been through a tremendously beautiful experience, but that experience disappears as the effect of the LSD goes out of the system.

But Kabir’s experience remains twenty-four hours, day in, day out, his whole life.

Once it happens, it is always there.

This is a simple criterion. But he was so much fascinated by the experience, and he corrupted almost a whole generation. They thought that if a man like Huxley says that LSD can give you samadhi, then what is the need of going through so much trouble for meditation with no guarantee whether you will be able to succeed or not?

I am against drugs because they can become addictive and they can prevent your spiritual growth. You can start thinking that you have achieved what you were seeking, and your hands are empty. You are just dreaming.

But, on the other hand, I am a very scientific mind. On the other hand, I would like drugs to be used, not to be prohibited - but used under proper guidance as a stepping-stone towards meditation.

And governments should pay more attention for improving the drugs rather than preventing people. If improved drugs are available, then other drugs will already be out of the market. There is no need to prohibit anything in the world.

Just produce something better - something better, cheaper, legal. Then who is going to bother about marijuana, hashish, heroin - for what? There is no reason.

Something better is available with the medical store, without prescription. Even in the hospital, you can book a place for yourself, that doctors can look after you while you are in the drug experience. Meditators can help you to understand what has happened to you. And this is possible very easily through meditation.

One thing more, that if something even hallucinatory happens to a person, meditation becomes easier. Something in him becomes certain. Something in him is now perfectly guaranteed that meditation is not just fiction.

And the hallucinatory experience also opens some doors.

The guidance can be of very much importance. For example, when somebody is under LSD and is having an ecstatic joy, that is the moment to teach him the method of meditation, because he is very sensitive, very clean and clear as he is not ordinarily. He is dull and cloudy. Now the whole sky is a clarity. You can teach him meditation more easily in this moment than you can teach him when he is in an ordinary state.

He seems to listen but he only hears. It does not go deep. His sleep is thick.

But in certain moments under LSD he is very close to awakening. Under a right guide, he can be introduced to the technique of meditation. He can be given what is called post-hypnotic suggestions for which he is absolutely vulnerable. He can be told that “This meditation, you will be able to do it when you are out of LSD experience.” You can go on repeating it that, “You are going to succeed in it.” It is a simple method and there is no problem in not succeeding in it.

Just one or two sessions with a guide will be enough. The man can be moved towards meditation. And once he moves towards meditation, drugs have no importance at all.

All the efforts of scientists and the government should be to understand that if a certain thing has been so attractive for the whole history of man, and no government has ever been successful to prohibit it, then there must be a certain need that it fulfills. And unless that need is fulfilled in some other way, drugs are going to remain in the world. And they are destructive. @B204 And the more governments are against them, more destructive they are because nobody can make any refinements on them, nobody can make any experiments on them, nobody is even allowed to say what I am saying.

But I can say it because I am against drugs. But that does not mean they cannot be used. They can be used as a means, they are not the end.

And if we can hope a future free of drugs, if man becomes naturally meditative….

And that is possible. If a child finds his father is meditating, his mother is meditating, everybody is meditating, he will start being curious about it. He also wants to meditate.

And that is the age when meditation is very simple because he is not yet corrupted by the society. Yet he is innocent.

And if everybody around him is doing something and enjoying in doing it, he cannot remain behind. He will sit with them with closed eyes. First, they may laugh at him, that it is not possible for children. But they do not understand. It is more possible for children than for the so-called grownups.

Just the atmosphere of meditation in schools, in colleges, in universities - wherever the person goes he finds that atmosphere which nourishes his own meditativeness.

I would love to see that no drugs are needed in the world. But not through prohibition, but through creating something better, something real. Drugs will be defeated without any difficulty, but these idiotic governments go on giving importance to drugs and they go on destroying the youth around the world.

The most precious time of life is wasted in hallucinations, and by the time they realize what they have done to themselves, perhaps it is too late. They cannot come back to a normal state. Their body has become accustomed to having certain chemicals in it. Then even unwillingly they have to go on injecting themselves with all kinds of poisons.

Or if somebody has not been on hard drugs, returns back, then he finds life very much dull, duller than you find it because he has seen something beautiful. It always remains a comparison.

He has made love under the impact of drug and he had felt at the very top of the world. And now he makes love and finds that it is nothing but a kind of sneeze.

It feels good; you sneeze and it feels good, but it is not something that you live for. Nobody can say that “I am living here for sneezing.”

12.17 coda

Cas hasn’t been picking up.

It’s not the first time something like this happened but Dean thought they were past this. They’ve been texting almost every day, talking at least twice a week. Now that he knows this version of Cas, he can’t take the radio silence.

It spooks him more than he lets on.

He tries again late at night, dials the number he knows by heart. Straight to voicemail. He knows it would happen, he tried just a minute ago, but the sound of Cas’ voice washes over him and he relaxes as much as his nervousness increases. At the beep, he sighs.

“Cas, buddy… where are you?”
His mouth is an ugly grimace, the lines on his face etched with concern even after he rubs his hand over his face. It’s not the first message and it won’t be the last. He should stop. He should. Still, his voice breaks.

“I need you.”

We need you, he should add - because plural is safer, less full of weight. Yet, for some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he just swallows, calls Castiel’s name softly against the speaker as if the sound of it could summon the angel. But, just like the other times before, the line clicks dead. Cas doesn’t magically appear just because Dean is wishing it with every fiber of his being. So the hunter closes his eyes, puts the phone by the nightstand - as he always does when Cas is away. Just in case.

He’s drowning, deeper and deeper, pulled into the water by dark claws. He can’t fight it. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to anymore. All of the sudden, he’s pulled up, fast and hard and then all the water is gone. He’s dry, standing on his childhood bedroom, bright blue “I Wuv Hugz” shirt on. Cas. Cas is standing right in front of him. The angel looks down at his shirt quizzically, the twitch of his brow too accurate to be just a memory. Then, he looks back up, smiles, all soft and gentle before he steals Dean’s space and wraps tight arms around broad shoulders.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He hugs back, closed fists against Cas’ back, but none of this makes sense and the realization hits him like a truck doing ninety on a freeway. He pulls back, eyes moist and full of hurt.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I? You’re just a dream.”

The angel hesitates, his expression odd. He looks as if he’s considering the answer and it makes Dean think for a moment that maybe it’s really Cas, sneaking into his dreams. But then the angel nods, confirms his suspicions and Dean believes it - maybe because Cas needs him to. He wraps his arms around the angel again, anyway. Fictional or not, this Cas feels real.

“Come back to me,” he pleads to the phantom because if it’s just a dream he can’t be at fault for his own words. Cas frowns, he looks sad - like angel statues over cold stone graves. Too sad. Dean’s hand cradles his jaw and he presses closer, leans in until his lips brush Cas’ in a gentle kiss.

“I’ll wait,” he assures, “just… come back.”

At last, Cas smiles again and Dean can’t help but smile back. The angel pulls him in for another kiss but he licks it out of Dean’s mouth, all demanding and pushy, hard and bossy in that way he knows always has the hunter going a little crazy. So Dean melts into it, all soft, pleased noises, moaning into chapped pink lips, trembling fingertips dancing over Castiel’s nape.

He should be angry. He knows Cas is lying. His imagination, no matter how good, could never recreate Cas this perfectly. This is the real deal, probably neck deep into some new stupid ass decision. But Dean doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and smirks into the kiss, pulling the blue-eyed little nerd closer still.

When he wakes up, hours later, the other side of the bed remains empty. Still, he feels a little better. Cas will come back.

He always does.