my mind is a separate being from my body

fellicityworthington-deactivate  asked:

"I need this." maxerica!

I’m being naughty ;) which is what I’m sure you wanted.

I couldn’t stop. It was like something had taken over my mind, making my body act on its own free will. A part of me knew there was a whole room of diplomats on the first floor. That same part of me knew that only a thin door, which didn’t hide noise very well, separated us from the two guards that followed me up here. 

But I didn’t care.

All I cared about was Maxon’s lips on mine, the taste of crisp white wine mixed with his own sweet taste. His hands were on my back, gripping me tightly through the fabric of my dress.

I had walked into my office, intending to get a picture of Maxon and I on our honeymoon to show Nicoletta, but I never got to the pictures. My husband had me pressed up against the bookshelf, his body doing delicious things to mine. My hand roamed up his back, feeling the scars that covered it. It only made him more beautiful to me.

“Maxon,” I stuttered as he moved to assault my neck. He was careful, gently sucking on the spot right below my ear. “We-we should g-get back.” I really didn’t want him to stop, but we had to attend to the other royals in the castle. I did have a duty as Queen.

“If I have to watch the Duke of Wales flirt with you one more time, I’m likely to declare war.“ 

I laughed at his joking tone, "Is someone jealous?”

“Greatly,” he admitted as he nipped my collar bone. His lips traveled down my dress line, and I closed my eyes. Heat coursed through me, making me ache for him in a way that was now undeniably familiar and still wonderfully new. 

“Maxon, we can’t,” I whimpered. I wasn’t sure if I was begging him to stop or keep going. He crashed into me, the taste of him overwhelming my senses and my resolve. I wouldn’t have cared if the King of Italy had walked in right now. 

Those perfect brown eyes met mine, his hands gripping into my waist with a gentle ease I had come to know so well. His fingertips traced my jaw, our breathing the only sound that filled the room.

“I need this. I need you, America, right this minute.”

I nodded my head, and Maxon picked me up in his arms as I traced a line down his neck, my hands unbuttoning the jacket and shirt he wore. He laid me on the sofa, looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world as he let his shirt fall to the floor.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he whispered as his lips grazed my own. His hands traveled up my legs, and I sighed in pleasure.

The French and Italians would have to wait fifteen minutes. I had new territory to conquer. 

?

So-called surrogacy provides a perfect example of the mind-body distinction which is a creation of  patriarchal philosophical discourse. It is not only a child who is “bought” - whether with money, gifts, or through emotional and psychological gratification. It is not only a uterus that is “bought” as a receptacle to house the pregnancy until the commissioned child is born. The woman’s bloodstream, her oxygen system, her nutrient system, her whole physical self becomes part of the transaction.

A woman may be persuaded, just as women who “sell” other parts of their bodies are persuaded, that her mind remains her own: she defines her mind as the centre of her autonomy, which is not for sale - or exploitation.

If she succeeds at distancing herself (her mind), thusly, from herself (her body), she engages in a centrally destructive feat: mind and body cannot be separated, are not separable. I am my body. I am myself. Myself is my body. In the very process of attempting to evade the inevitable: that one’s self is being “used” by others for their own ends, the woman divides herself from herself, her mind from her body. Thus the autonomous self is dictated to by the exigencies of the moment. The autonomous self is occupied by others.

If she does not succeed in dichotomising herself in this way, the woman recognises herself as occupied territory: the commissioning parents have first call (whether by legal contract or moral understanding) not only upon the developing child, but upon the woman herself.

—  Whose Surrogacy? Surrogacy, Ethics and the Law by Jocelynne A. Scutt.
Please (Newt x Reader)

Character: Newt

Fandom: Maze Runner

Categories: Reader Insert, Female!Reader, Angst

Title: Please

 

WARNING: Some serious feels, angst and sadness. Be emotionally prepared because I shucking cried writing this. Also, spoilers from The Death Cure.


Requested by espritriver:

Can you please write a Newt imagine where… uhhh… the Gladers are in the Scorch and… uhhh… Newt, who has the Flare, saves the reader’s life and… dies in her arms! Newt ran away of his friends but it’s the reader who finds him instead of Thomas and, maybe a Crank attacks her or something and Newt saves her, despite the Flare which makes him crazy.  


A/N: I consider this some kind of alternative ending in the Death Cure. I hope you like it, and I apologize for the feels in advance. I suffered so much writing this, it was incredibly hard to do. I didn’t revise it because I literally can’t read this.


I didn’t mind that the city was filled with Cranks that could kill me. I didn’t mind that Minho, Thomas and everyone would be worried and looking for me.

And I didn’t shuck care that this stupid deed would be my last. I just didn’t care anymore.

I had ran away just like Newt had. I couldn’t be with my friends pretending that everything was okay. So I decided to be on my own.

I aimlessly walked the streets, not really paying attention to anything that surrounded me. All I could think about was one thing. One person.

The same words echoed in my head in a sickening way, making me feel weak and feverish. My stomach felt incredibly heavy, as if I had swallowed lead. And the lump in my throat kept me from crying, but not from sobbing.

The Flare. Cranks. Not immune. Newt.

Maybe it would be best if I didn’t make it. I didn’t know where I was going anyway, I guessed I was trying to run away from myself. From my thoughts. From my suffering.

The pain was too much to bear. And if that shank Rat Man hadn’t assured I was immune, I could have sworn I was getting the Flare too. I felt jacked in the head.

Maybe I wasn’t immune. Maybe it was just another of WICKED’s stupid tests. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

I dragged myself forward, my body felt so heavy and my mind so foggy that I was surprised I was still on my feet.

WICKED and their stupid tests. Sending me into the Maze to fall in love with ‘The Glue’, one of the very few Gladers that weren’t immune. The Glader that I cared about most. The person I cared about most in the whole world.

For what? Just to see Newt die? To see him separate from me or slowly lose himself to the Flare? I couldn’t have that.

I wouldn’t just stand by and watch how Newt stopped being the caring, kind and selfless person he is. I couldn’t watch Newt stop being Newt.

That was what I ran away from.

How I wished I could go back to the Maze. Or forget everything again, be swiped from all the anguish that created a void in my chest.

I was ripped out of my thoughts as suddenly, something hit my side with amazing strength and send me to the floor.

I hit my head hard against the pavement and my vision blurred as my ears began to whistle.

An animal like roar made me scream and jump. 

It was a Crank. I was dead.

But I found a strange and reassuring hope knowing I would finally be in peace.

Before the Crank could bite me and kill me, a loud noise that echoed through the empty streets made me yelp. A gunshot.

I breathed heavily as I realized the Crank was dead. The limp body lied over me.

Grunting because of the effort, I tried to push it away. And surprisingly, it moved to the side, where he layed. He was dead with his eyes open, a bullet hole on his head, where blood was starting to dry.

“Y/N?!”

I opened my eyes wide as I couldn’t believe what was happening.

“N-Newt?” I quickly jumped to my feet when I saw him.

I was about to run to hug him when I noticed his looks.

His once fluffy and blond hair was dirty, almost brown, and crazily messy.

He was extremely pale, his skin had turned into a sickening white tone.

But the absolute worst thing was his eyes. Newt’s eyes used to be warm, kind, lively, sweet and awake. Instead, they had this crazy and void look to them. Like staring directly into a never ending pit of darkness.

He looked… insane. That person didn’t look like Newt even if he had his thin frame and brown eyes. He had become a Crank.

My hand flew to my mouth as I tried to keep back the sob that was destroying my throat as the lump on it tightened.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?! Go away, now!!!” He screamt at the top of his lungs. That wasn’t his voice either. And I hoped those weren’t his words as well.

“Newt…” Was all I could say, wishing I could do something to bring him back.

“I SAID GO AWAY! LEAVE ME BLOODY ALONE! I BLOODY HATE YOU ALL!”

Definitely, I started to cry. My chest began to hurt so badly that I thought I would die.

“But you saved me…” I managed to whisper, briefly looking at the dead Crank.

We were just a few steps away, so he heard me.

Newt’s chest went up and down in anger as he looked down to the gun that he held in his hand. Where did he get that from?

“CAN’T YOU SEE, Y/N?!” He angrily stomped in my direction, making me take a few steps back. “I’M A BLOODY CRANK! JUST DO WHAT I TELL YOU, I HATE YOU, GET THE SHUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

“Newt, please….” My voice cracked and I didn’t even understand my own words.

I would have done what he said if I could move, but I was so in shock that I couldn’t.

I noticed his hands twitched. And I pictured those moments in which those hands used to be soft, when he played with my hair in the Glade. When he intertwined his bony fingers with mine. When they rubbed my back when we hugged. When they were calm and tender instead of shaky and rough.

“You are the only thing that’s been keeping me slightly sane” His voice got low until it became a whisper, so I quickly looked up to him. “All this time, it was only you”

Newt held the gun tightly, so much his knuckles went white.

“Newt…” I said again, crying without control.

“I’ll pass the Gone soon” His anger was back for a moment as he frowned to the floor. His eyes became watery of pure hatred and fury. “You have to do it”

“What?” I uttered in a low whisper.

Determined, Newt took a few steps until he was right in front of me and then stopped to look me in the eyes.

Being so close to him scared me. All I could see was a Crank, that couldn’t be Newt!

“Do what Tommy couldn’t do. What he was too bloody coward for!” He yelled, putting the gun in my hands.

For a moment I didn’t know what he was talking about. My mind worked too slowly. But then I remembered.

The note.

Thomas told me about the note. I was the only one that he spoke about it to. He said I needed to know, because I was the only who Newt loved that way. And I was the one who loved Newt that way too.

I closed my eyes tight as I remembered what the note said.

Kill me. If you’ve ever been my friend, kill me.

“No, I can’t, Newt” I stared at the gun absently. My legs were shaking so much I knew I wouldn’t hold on much longer.

“JUST BLOODY DO IT, Y/N. IF YOU’VE EVER LOVED ME, DO IT!” His loud voice startled me as I looked at him through the tears in my eyes. “BEFORE I BECOME ONE OF THEM!”

My heart was in so much pain that I couldn’t talk. Why him? Why Newt? Why did someone who did so much good had to take so much pain? He didn’t deserve it! WHY?!

“I can’t do it…” I weakly said, crying still.

I was just so tired. So shuck fed up. 

Newt sighed and closed his eyes tight as he put a shaky hand over them. It looked like he was trying to control himself one last time.

“I love you, and you have to do it” He whispered, and I could have sworn I heard him sobbing as well. “Please, Y/N, please…”

When he spoke, he sounded controled. Almost as if he had regained sanity for a moment.

My hands were shaking so much that I thought I would drop the gun.

“We’ll see each other soon when your time comes. Just….” Newt sighed, and I knew he realized what my plan to end my pain was.

I was going to do that last thing for him and take his pain away. But then I would end it all for myself.

“Just what?” I sobbed, unable to hold his glare as he finally uncovered his eyes.

“Wait for me. I’ll be waiting for you on the other side” For a second, his husky voice was as soft as usual even if he sounded forced.

“Okay…” I gulped as I leaned the barrel on his forehead, cringing on the inside.

“Promise me” I felt Newt holding the barrel and pushing it aside for a moment. “Please, Y/N”

I closed my eyes and nodded. I couldn’t promise that. The pain would eat me alive after I lost him and that was the only way out for me. He was the only thing left I had to fight for.

“Promise” When I noticed the anger finding its way back to his tender voice, I knew we were running out of time.

“I promise” My voice turned out shaky and cracked at the end, but I said it.

Then Newt put the barrel against his forehead again and I heard a shaky sob coming from him.

I opened my eyes and looked at him to see him one last time.

He was looking down in surrender. And I knew he was tired too. 

“I’ll see you soon, love” A single tear fell down his face as I had a glimpse of Newt’s usual self in his eyes. For a second, they were his eyes: Warm. Kind. Sweet. Lively. Awake.

Love. He called me love again, like he used to do.

I closed my eyes and turned my head to the side as I focused on the memories of the old Newt. His smile. His warm eyes staring at me with so much love that it made butterflies wander in my stomach. His laughter. His kindness. His tenderness. His caring manners. His everything.

And then, I took a deep breath as I shut my eyes tight.

“I love you, Newt”

And I pulled the trigger.

The Iron Sutra

The term “yoga” doesn’t refer to a single method or system; rather, many different types of yogas have been developed and expounded in the course of the development of human growth systems, each aimed at revealing or enhancing a particular sphere of experience.

The word “yoga” come from the same root as “yoke,” meaning to link things together, to connect or associate or bond. In the spiritual sense, then, yogas are technologies developed for “linking” (or bringing together) certain seemingly separate aspects of a person’s experience, such as connecting body to mind, or flesh to essence, or emotion to cognition, or energy to movement, or individualized ego to undifferentiated Being, etcetra.

My yoga is weightlifting. Like Hatha yoga–which is essentially the stretching-breathing form of yoga that most Westerners associate with the word–weight lifting provides an opportunity to: 1. Get out of my mind and redirect attention into the feeling senses (thus slowing the verbal mind). 2. Open up and flush out the body-mind through stretching, exertion, movement and breath. 3.Focus on deep, deliberate breathing, 4. Focus on the body’s energy systems, and on where this flow might be crimped or occluded. 5. Gain a wonderful reserve of strength, limberness and overall health. 5. Enhance discipline and focus.

Essentially the activity appears the same from the outside, just as it does with the stretching/breathing of Hatha; however, also as in Hatha, the primary difference comes from the degree of focus and concentration on the internal environment, on the organic precision of the movement, of the way the breath feeds the energy, and how the energy is allowing to the muscles to contract and shorten, and the way the muscles are flowing with the movements.

One of the keys to this is to back off on the weight somewhat (until you get a real feel for the internal aspects) and, rather than “lifting” the weight, you flex the involved muscles, and this flexion in turn creates the lift. In other words, rather than, say, curl the weight into place, you instead deeply focus on the intentional shortening of the biceps muscle, like you were posing rather than “lifting.” Feel the entire movement with a zen-like open awareness. And do this on every movement.

Plug into your favorite music and allow yourself to become deeply internalized. Ignore everyone around you. Ignore your own brain. The idea is to allow the thinking mind to utterly drop off, so that you are simply the body and its movement, you are simply the breath and the energy that rides it. Completely relax between sets, letting all the tension drain for a brief rest period; then take a moment to reengage the focus and reenter the body before entering into the next set with the same “freshness” of intent as all the ones before.

I also like to spend about 45 minuets warming up (with the first 20 on some form of slowly progressing aerobics to start with) and stretching before actually engaging in the workout proper. This typically involves a mixture of full-bodied controlled breathing, stretches and movements from hatha, tai chi, chi gung, and calisthenics. But, as in the actual lifting above, all of these are performed with great deliberation, graceful strength, and deep interior focus, like a ballet of movement.

The benefits of this “style” are immense and complementary. You get the meditative benefits and results, both long and short term, as well as the physical ones. And because you are exhausting the muscle rather than your energy systems, you leave feeling energetic and refreshed and alive. Try it, or at least try the approach itself to whatever your favorite form of exercise. Explore yourself deeply. Play with life.

I get irrationally annoyed when people make Ron a total dick in fanfiction because he has trouble not comparing himself to Harry. They’re twisting it and making it seem like Ron is some harsh person that wouldn’t die for Harry, when he’s proven time and time again that he 100% would. They’re minimizing what it’s like to have an inferiority complex or bad self-esteem. Do you have any idea how much it sucks to literally believe you aren’t as good as those around you? That you’ll always be second best and never truly be noticed? I had a friend who everyone she met loved her. Strangers would come over to her and tell her she was pretty. She had a large group of friends and was (or at least seemed) comfortable with herself and her body. She knew how to do makeup and be stylish, she was smart and athletic and I struggled with not comparing myself to her. I knew we were two separate individuals but that didn’t stop my mind from supplying ways she was better than me and telling me that she shouldn’t meet my other friends because they’d like her better than me. And it was the same with my sister. I’m getting better with that, but to have my low self-esteem portrayed as me being an utter asshole didn’t help. Yes, feeling inferior to people does get in the way sometimes, it can cause fights and arguments, but it does not make you a complete dickhead. If you’re an asshole, that’s what you are, but you’re not automatically one because you’ve struggled with accepting yourself. Reading that kind of Ron in fanfiction makes people who hate themselves, hate themselves even more. So please, just consider that before writing one of my favorite characters as a dick because he’s insecure.

Perceiving as a Human

The sensation of being in a human form is strange and vaguely uncomfortable.

My soul does not fit, it feels cramped. Most spiritualists describe being a soul in a body as very like wearing a suit, or driving a car. I refer to my body as a meat puppet, because all of me is not in it. I’m only controlling it.

My perception is very like using a telescope. I am not here, I am simply sensing here, and controlling the body which is here; but I have blinders on which make it harder to sense the place where I am, and easier to sense this place, where I am not.

I’d also compare it having one’s head stuck. I see through the body’s eyes, I hear with the body’s ears, I feel the body’s skin. But I’m also standing partially outside and around the body in the Etheric plane. I cannot turn off the ability to see and hear the Etheric plane, so I am continuously distracted by shifts in energy and the presence of entities which have nothing to do with the physical realm.

At the same time, I also feel the sensation of being in this body, and simply being compressed to fit. Different layers of the soul as a whole, I believe. Or my mind attempting to reconcile and shift my perceptions to be in line with the proportions of the body. I see myself as both the size of the body and size of a dragon simultaneously.

Astral projection does not come easily, because I seem to be stuck. I cannot divorce myself from my physical senses, so perceiving other realms accurately is difficult. They come through the filter of my physical sense, and are distorted in the process.

It is strange both perceiving the dragon form as separate and a great deal larger than the body, and simultaneously as analogous to it. I feel the fingers of this body, and I feel claws at the ends of them, while at the same time my claws are also as long as the arms of the body I occupy. I feel my wings on my body’s back and proportional to it’s size. I also feel them as larger than the room in which I sit, and the connective tissue between body and wing is longer than my body is tall.

It’s a strange sort of cognitive dissonance, I suppose.

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Can I just say, fuck the idea of mandatory dramatic dysphoria

A) the idea of dysphoria being required to be considered anything other than a ‘transtender’ is bullshit given that we’re trying so hard to SEPARATE our gender from our body parts.

B) This idea that dysphoria has to include ALL of your body and be intense and life altering and not just *pokes boobs* ‘well these suck’ is also fucking bullshit. It can leave so many people in the dark thinking they aren’t 'trans enough’ for the longest time I thought I was genderfluid because “well I like my boobs so clearly I still identify as female partially, never mind I hate my vagina and that my body parts have nothing to do with my gender and I fucking hate being called a woman, I don’t hate myself enough to be trans” and that’s such a bullshit notion.

If you have dysphoria, big or small then you are in my thoughts and I hope some day you can get to a place where you can love your body and it feels like it’s YOUR body.

However having it shouldn’t be a pre requisite for being trans, and it’s worth shouldn’t be measured.

Unhealthy scoliosis thoughts

I went shopping today. I was in a changing room trying on some clothes, one of the ones where there are three mirrors allowing you to see yourself from all angles, and l felt awful. Every time I find myself in one of these rooms, I am always confronted by how unsymmetrical and wrong my body looks. Honestly, for the most part I forget that I look any different to a regular person and the only thing that bothers me is my height… but then I have days like this, where the state of my scoliosis hits me and I realise that I really am different. I’ve already had all of the surgeries so this is it. There is no improving on this. My spine is never going to be straight and my body is never going to not be contorted like this. I just find it really really difficult. You’d think after almost 24 years of living in this body, I would not be shocked by seeing it from all angles… but I still am. It actually shocks me…. like wow you really aren’t fooling anyone, your body is fucked up. I don’t know how to describe it really… I feel like my mind and this external vehicle are not married into one being. I feel like they are separate things and I never really accepted that this was me. I don’t know how to accept it. I don’t know how to be happy with it.

Do you know what the worst part is? When I can feel people silently feeling sorry for me. That’s the real knife that plunges deep into my heart. When I feel that, every one of my insecurities is validated. I can see it in people’s eyes and hear it in their voices. I know that people feel sorry for me and I feel sorry for myself and it’s a mess.

Certainly most people feel separate from everything that surrounds them. On the one hand there is myself, and on the other hand the rest of the universe. I am not rooted in earth like a tree. I rattle around independently. I seem to be the center of everything, and yet cut off and alone. I can feel what is going on inside my own body, but can only guess what is going on in others. My conscious mind must have its roots and origins in the most unfathomable depths of the being, yet it feels as if it lived all by itself in this tight little skull.

Nevertheless, the physical reality is that my body exists only in relation to this universe, and in fact I am as a attached to it and dependent on it as a leaf on a tree. I feel cut off only because I am split within myself, because I try to be divided from my own feelings and sensations. What I feel and sense therefore seems foreign to me. And on being aware of the unreality of this division, the universe does not seem foreign any more…

—  Alan Watts
cs fic: the world spinning waves

I had a mighty need for not only Captain Swan, but some Emma and Robin friendship/bromance. I’ve had this sitting around for awhile and just needed to get it out there. In fact, the lovely seastarved even made this gorgeous edit with my words!

the world spinning waves

The castle ceiling, she thinks, is too high. Lofty and lonely.

He presses fragile words into her hair. “You were swimming.”

She doesn’t say anything when he leaves a weighty silence in wake of his admission.

“It was nighttime and the moon was in the sky and you were swimming.”

Her eyes are mapping the contours of his brow, his jaw, in a concentrated effort to keep the whole world from collapsing. She’s been breathing and moving and carrying on without a moment’s pause for months, and now that everything has gone still, the inertia of the lost year is pressing against her.

He’s pressing against her.

“That’s when she’s calm, the sea,” he places each word delicately against her collarbone, to sink into the place beneath her breast, “When her waters are still and magic.”

Keep reading

Certainly most people feel separate from everything that surrounds them. On the one hand there is myself, and on the other hand the rest of the universe. I am not rooted in earth like a tree. I rattle around independently. I seem to be the center of everything, and yet cut off and alone. I can feel what is going on inside my own body, but can only guess what is going on in others. My conscious mind must have its roots and origins in the most unfathomable depths of the being, yet it feels as if it lived all by itself in this tight little skull.

Nevertheless, the physical reality is that my body exists only in relation to this universe, and in fact I am as attached to it and dependent on it as a leaf on a tree. I feel cut off only because I am split within myself, because I try to be divided from my own feelings and sensations. What I feel and sense therefore seems foreign to me. And on being aware of the unreality of this division, the universe does not seem foreign any more…

—  Alan Watts

feelhappybehealthy-deactivated2  asked:

Hi, I have a huge question. How can I find my purpose of life? Sometimes I don't know why I live and what life means to me. I've been searching for so long. I already tried a lot but there is still this emptiness in my soul I guess.

“Mind’s essence, timelessly–right now, always, is an expanse of unchanging Original Innocence. Somewhere, deep within, all beings intuit this, and this intuition is precisely what draws the body, mind, and heart toward spiritual seeking. 

The wave is never separation from the ocean. If the wave forgot its union with the ocean and only felt itself to be a separate movement of water, what anxiety it would suffer! It would feel itself to be so temporary, so momentary and at the whim of rise and fall, birth and death.

It would desperately search for meaning within the minute span of its existence, not knowing that its meaning is an expression of the deep and not found in and of its shortness. Original Innocence is a meaning-saturated field opening into the ceaseless possibilities of expression through the energies of appearing, but if the deep connection to Original Innocence is lost an anxious search beings. 

The search in its immaturity is for partial temporary meanings within the momentary dimension of appearing. As maturity grows it becomes a search for direct knowing of the meaning-saturated ownmostness of mind itself. The search is to discover what has always already been the case.”

Traktung Yeshe Dorje

Namaste :)