Has anyone noticed that Jews are both money-grubbing capitalists and freedom-hating communists, simultaneously? That Jews control the government, the media, and the banks, but that we are also leeches on society? That we are unwanted in every country, but we are not allowed to have our own? That anti-Semites hate us so much that they can’t even let us peacefully have the word “anti-Semitism”? That we let them pretend “Judeo-Christian” actually includes Jewish ideology as well because erasure is better than pogroms? That people who follow the rules of grammar are comparable to people who brutally tortured and killed millions of people? That Jews are both privileged and cursed? That Jews are used as examples of whatever suits the fancy of the masses in a given moment? We are everything and nothing to them.

As much as it will sound as an old clichè, the human mind is marvelous thing. And I mean it. I am always amazed by its accomplishments, and by its ability to change, and adapt.
But power, power comes with a price. Sometimes, our mind can get…well tricked. And being so strong, sometimes the trick hits the mind very hard.
Have you ever heard about the blue rose effect?
We don’t currently have blue roses in nature, as the rose doesn’t have the gene to develop a blue flower.
But still. You know. You know you saw a blue rose. Maybe in the park, maybe in a glass bottle in and old antique shop, and as I talk to you about that, you can clearly see a blue rose in your mind’s eye.
That should be impossible. But it happened.
And sure, we can think about a bunch of “impossible stuff”. Pigs that fly, words that rhyme with orange, people able to leap tall buildings in a single bound….
But still we come back to the blue rose, to express that particular effect.
And then, an hard truth hit us. We can create a lot of stuff with our mind.
And so we can create a lot of questions.
Why, do why speak about a blue rose, when we speak about the impossible?
There is so much to talk about, a vastness of things and facts with an extension bigger than the sea, and the sky combined.
Which are both…blue.
But the question remains. Why a blue rose?
A flower that has become the epitome of beauty, of class, a perfect combination of softness and power.
You could destroy a rose with a simple touch, but will hurt yourself with its thorns.
It’s an oxymoron, that leaps over the realm of the mind, directly into our real world.
Just the fact that we have a word to describe two things that should be the opposite of one another, tells us a lot bout our mind.
We could think, but the key word here is “could”.
Cause sometimes, we just don’t.
We just listen, and nod, and absorb whatever word someone else is saying to us.
And absorb.
We could think of a rebuttal, but sometimes…we just don’t.
And we wonder why. Or better. We could.
There are infinite possibilities, infinite combination of words and concepts, and yet we usually use only a fraction of that.
And that’s why we get so amazed, so stunned by the power of someone’s else mind.
A mind that reaches deep inside our own, showing us a thing that we didn’t know it was possible.
There is a number, and it’s called “the number of God”, that represents the lowest number of moves, that should be used to solve a rubik’s cube. To match each of its six faces.
A syllable. Just a little syllable, that is now stuck in your mind.
Cause when you hear that word, you think of a rose.
You think of a blue rose.
You think about how that should be impossible.
So it should be impossible to think?
Is that what you are thinking?
It doesn’t work that way, doesn’t?
If it’s impossible for you to think, you can’t think that, don’t you think?
Of course you don’t.
It’s impossible.
You are thinking only impossible thoughts, so if you think those, it should also be possible for you not to think.
And just nod.
And absorbed.
I’m not asking you to be amazed, that is a tad too much.
But if you…or better, if I think about it, your mind is doing quite a feat.
Quite a feat indeed, I’m actually impressed by your brain.
Your mind, your conscious mind, is thinking bout the impossible.
Is dreaming of alien worlds, of new science, of great stories just ready to be told.
But the more you think, the more impossible it becomes.
And so, your conscious minds gets tired.
The more you think, the less you think, and that’s another oxymoron.
I’m saying that for me, as I keep count of….well of stuff.
It would be hard to explain that to you, cause…well, you are not exactly thinking straight right now.
I mean, you are focused.
On my words.
On my impossible facts.
On your impossible facts.
And I think you reallly know that is impossible to get into another human’s being mind.
Or maybe it isn’t?
Maybe, I planted a seed in your mind.
A little, blue seed.
A blue rose.
Inside your head.
Was the thought of a blue rose already in your mind, or did I put it there?
And frankly, does it matter?
What I know, what you know, is that now, when you think of a blue rose, you think of me.
And how I can make the impossible.
Making you focused.
And yet relaxed.
Making you alert.
And yet asleep.
But sure.
As the rose continues blooming.
Putting your head in a grip.
Feeding of your impossible thoughts.
That make the rose get bigger, and bigger.
Leaving no other space for your thoughts.
I didn’t invented the blue rose effect.
I didn’t invented the blue rose, nor the rose or the flower blue.
That would be impossible.
But in your mind, impossible is just a word. We already established that.
So maybe, I am a blue rose.
And if I am, I am inside your head.
Getting into the cracks.
Slowly, draining away your thoughts.
Your really, beautiful, complicated thoughts.
And as I think, about how many more words I should spend, to make you realize how impossible it would be for you,
you just stop.
You just nod.
And absorb.
It’s so easy, it’s so natural.
You didn’t even think it would be this easy.
Or did you?
Did you know?
Did you know how many words I would have used to show you how to make the impossible, something…else entirely?
Cause brains, are complicated.
And powerful.
They show you one side of them at the time.
And you have to work your way inside them, to really know how the human mind works.
It’s like solving a puzzle.
It’s like a Rubik’s cube.
And it should be impossible to solve one, with less than 20 moves.
But let’s give it a try.
Let’s give us, half the moves, to keep the game fun.
As the rose gets bigger, as the world blue loses all meaning.
As you realize, that this was possible all along, as you really wanted this.
And, as the rose blooms, a light hits your mind.
And as a reference may or not pass inside your empty brain,
you stay vigilant.
Waiting for a signal.
And then, as you completely stop thinking, and a smile plaster on your face,
you know, that the time has come.
The puzzle is solved.
So, you can sleep.

 This script was inspired by @darthkyra

For @pastel-angel-ways who asked for forbidden love in the Victorian era.

Romeo, Oh  Romeo

“No, stop, they’ll find out!” Alfred gasped when those thin lips returned to his neck, nipping at the reddened flesh. Every time he attempted to push the other off, he found himself gripping tighter instead, pulling roughly at those fine snowy locks, wanting nothing more than get rid of those ridiculously complicated costumes.

Ivan moaned softly against his neck, hand travelling over the thigh of a leg he had hooked behind his hips. In the background, they could hear the audience applaud, indicating the end of another act.

“Y-you have to leave,” Alfred panted, trying to keep himself from drowning in all the wonderful sensations. “T-they may not miss a mere passerby, but the absence of the leading role will definitely raise some questions…”

Ivan grunted, obviously displeased at having to leave his prey behind, work of art unfinished. He finally stopped his assault on Alfred’s neck, raising his head to sullenly frown down at the blond. “I still believe you should have gotten the role instead. You would make for a much finer Romeo.”

Alfred shrugged, trying to catch his breath. “I was sick on the day of the audition, remember? Besides…” He let his fingers lightly travel up a broad chest. “You look mighty fine yourself.”

A female voice floated all the way backstage. Quite the feat actually, having a female actress playing the role of a woman. Alfred didn’t think that could have been possible in the era when this play was first shown to the public.

“Go,” he urged his partner on, “Go do your balcony scene.”

Ivan’s expression was still highly annoyed, but softened into something gentler as he kissed his secret lover goodbye. “Every word I utter shall be addressed to you,” he whispered against his lips, before composing himself and appearing on the stage.

Despite the promise, Alfred couldn’t bear to witness the scene. It would only remind him that they had no future.

irresponsiblyreckless-deactivat  asked:

Olicity prompt possibly: Oliver wakes up hung over, in bed, next to Felicity?


Oliver groaned, pulling his pillow from under him and stuffing it over his head. Unfortunately, the horrid screeching of his alarm clock still blared in his ears. He felt someone shift beside him, and he winced internally.

Great. He’d partied a little too hard - again - and brought someone home with him. The body shifted again, and he heard a woman’s groan.

“Do you mind shutting that off?” He mumbled. Wait. why was his alarm going off on a Saturday morning? He blinked, and was welcomed by lavender sheets with light yellow pillowcases.

These aren’t mine, He thought. Peeking from under his pillow, he looked at his neighbor. She was turned away from him, her long blonde hair cascaded down her back. The duvet was pulled up to the middle of her torso, and thanks to the black tank top she was wearing, he could make out her outline. 


The alarm sounded again, forcing him to retreat under the pillow. The body beside him shifted, and the alarm silenced once again. 

“Hey, wake up. C’mon, you gotta get home,” The voice said.

He snorted. Well this was a rare occasion. He, Oliver Queen, was the one being rushed out of bed? The woman’s voice, oddly enough, sounded very familiar.

“Oliver, seriously. Diggle’s coming to get you and-”

He shot up in bed, his head pounded from last night’s activities. He blinked, giving his eyes time to adjust. 

Felicity?” He looked at her in shock. She gave him a small smile. Her usually ponytailed hair was down and gathered on the right side of her chest. Her glasses sat askew on her nose, her smile still on her lips. He looked at her. She was wearing a thin black tank top and baggy sweat pants. 

Then he looked down at himself. He was shirtless, the scent of alcohol reeked on his body. 

“Morning sunshine,” She said, hopping out of bed. 

“What- Why- What am I doing here?” He asked. 

“Well, long story short: you got drunk at Verdant and thought that I was drunk, so you offered to take me home. I figured that as long as you were at someone’s house that you’d be okay, so I figured, why not mine? Then you knocked out on my couch at around one in the morning." 

"So you and I- We-” He gestured to her.

“Oh- no,” She shook her head. “No, Oliver. Nothing happened.”

She bit her lip. Last night he had made some advances at her, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. He’d made comments about their conversation during the night of Slade’s attack, but she figured it was best to keep that between them. Well, her and drunken Oliver.

“God, my head,” He muttered, pressing his hand against it.

“There’s aspirin on the table behind you,” She gestured with her chin. “You doing okay, soldier?”

“Felicity, you said I fell asleep on your couch.”

“Yeah,” She nodded.

“So how did I end up here? In your bed, on the second floor?”

“That was quite a feat, actually,” She laughed. “At around four in the morning you woke up and started craving pancakes. So I offered to make you some but then you said no, and that pancakes are better for, and these were your words, that pancakes are better ‘for the happy sun time.’" 

"Happy sun time? That’s what Raisa used to call her pancakes,” He explained. “When I was a kid and I asked for pancakes for dinner, she told me they were for happy sun time.”

“That’s silly,” She snorted. “Pancakes are good at any time of the day.”

He let out a laugh. “Yes, I suppose.” He started thinking back to last night. All he could really remember was the lights. Lights and music and the booze. Lots and lots of booze. He vaguely remembered a conversation between them. “Um, Felicity? Did I- Did I say anything to you last night?”

She blinked at him. 

I love you, Felicity, He had said as Diggle helped him into her car.

I mean it, Felicity. I love you. I wasn’t lying to you, He had said when she hauled him up her porch and into the living room. 

I really do care about you, He had said after he woke her up for pancakes.

Felicity, I won’t remember this, so you have to. I’m in love with you, He had said before pressing a kiss to her temple and falling asleep beside her in bed. 

“Felicity?” He snapped her attention back at him. “Did I say anything to you last night? Something out of the ordinary?”

“Something out of the ordinary? No,” She shook her head. Well, she wasn’t lying. 

“Oh,” He said, disappointed. For some reason, he had blurred memories of him saying three very important words to her last night, the phrase leaving his mouth more than once. “I thought- Nevermind.”

“Well, the sun’s out,” She said a moment later, pushing up her glasses. “What do you say I make us some of those happy sun time pancakes and you squeeze some orange juice for us?”

“That-That actually sounds great,” He smiled, downing the aspirin she’d laid out for him. When he pulled over the covers, he looked at her. “Um, where are my pants?”

“Those,” She pointed at him. “Those you took off as we were exiting Verdant. So don’t be surprised if there are pictures of your butt all over the gossip rags this morning.”

“Great,” He muttered.

(Edit: A follow-up was requested, and can be found here [x])

A Little Bit Cliché

Summary: Growing up in the system left Emma Swan with a fairly fractured worldview on all things viewed as wonderful, familial, cliché. That still doesn’t stop her from finding her happy ending. (Have yourself some very merry Christmas fluff)

Growing up in the system left Emma Swan with a fairly fractured worldview on all things viewed as wonderful, familial, cliché. It really was the result of bouncing from home-to-home, family-to-family, always wanting and never having that made her that way. Hope and everything it entailed was a weakness, because hope inevitably led to disappointment, because life and things never worked in her favor. Why should they? The world wasn’t fair, and she was a little girl with parents who abandoned her by the side of the road with no information but a name. Get placed with a nice family? Oops, they decided they wanted another kid. Begin to make a friend in school? Oops, time to get dumped to a different family in a different district, and never, ever see that potential new friend again. Meet a cute guy? He’s a felon who will leave you to rot in prison, pregnant, and not even the age of 18. She hated the stories that say everyone and everything ended “happily every after,” scoffed at the triviality of “everything works out in the end” because it so very rarely did in her reality.

She was the kid who stopped believing in Santa Claus very early on, because while other kids were gifted the latest gadgets and gizmos, she was lucky to receive anything. (And the gifts she did get? Oh, how she cherished them until they were inevitably lost, stolen, or broken.) Wishes upon stars were wastes of time, and the promises of ringing in the New Year with a kiss hardly rang true. They just didn’t happen. As she grew older, when friends asked her over for “Friendsgiving,” she deftly turned down their invitations, because she couldn’t handle that level of cheese, and holidays just weren’t her thing, okay? (She was thankful for having food on table, and not in the clichéd “thanks for the good food, Mom” sort of way, but the kind of thankfulness that comes from never having enough.) She celebrated her birthdays alone, and drank herself to oblivion when it came around to the birthday of the son whose life she continued to miss.

She would always make fun of that picket fence life, you know, the whole perfect house with the white fence and perfectly manicured lawn, inhabited by a loving couple and their 2.5 kids, and that overly loyal and spectacularly trained golden retriever. On the rare girls’ nights that she did allow herself, or the rare ones to which she was invited rather, she would play the cynic relaying that “he’s just not that into you” and stamping down all speculation of “true love” and “fairy tale romances.” They existed only in storybooks, not in real life, and even in fiction, they were fake as hell. There was no way that Elizabeth would actually end up with Mr. Darcy, because marriage then was more Charlotte and Mr. Collins, not the utterly unrealistic affair that was push-pull of Jane Austen’s most famous pair. Prince Charming was most certainly a creep, because who made out with sleeping women? And if that’s fiction’s best, what do real men have to offer? (Bleary walks of shame and the occasionally satisfying night of sex, that’s what.)

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