who throws a boat

things i would sell my soul for
  • the raven cycle as a netflix series
You Had Me At balloon Animals (Part 2)

You Had Me At balloon Animals (Part 2) | Part 1

Title: You Had Me at Balloon Animals
Summary: This is AU. Very very AU. Jane and Roman are con artists. Sarah is their target. Kurt is serving a suspension. Also it’s Sawyer’s birthday.

Fourteen Years Ago

Teenaged Remi Briggs lay in bed very still, pretending to be asleep, a skill she had learned and mastered in her time here – the place she was told she could call home all those years ago when Ellen Briggs had adopted her and her brother, Roman.

Those weren’t their names then. She was born Alice Kruger, and her brother, a year younger, was Ian Kruger.

But now, only a few years later, those names had long been forgotten.

Remi lay there, counting her heartbeats, counting the minutes. There were no clocks or watches or phones in the room, so Remi had to count time on her own. She knew lights out was at ten on the dot. And she knew that Shepherd retreated to her quarters at 11.

By her count, she had twelve minutes left before she could make a move.

So, she counted. And she waited.

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I just really don’t understand why so many people are trying to manipulate everything to make it look like it was wrong for Armin to live.
It’s been proven since the first or second episode that Armin is the person who can throw together a well thought out plan that can save a boat load of people. Which is what they kinda need to get out of this mess. So in the long run it made the most since and I just wish people could see that instead of letting their emotions take over and stop acting like it’s Armins fault for their favorite character dying.



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I have a poem for you. This poem is about three of us.
The first is a twelve-year-old girl, one of the boat
people crossing the Gulf of Siam. She was raped by a
sea pirate, and after that she threw herself into the
sea. The second person is the sea pirate, who was born
in a remote village in Thailand. And the third person
is me. I was very angry, of course. But I could not take
sides against the sea pirate. If I could have, it would
have been easier, but I couldn’t. I realized that if I
had been born in his village and had lived a similar life
- economic, educational, and so on - it is likely that I
would now be that sea pirate. So it is not easy to take
sides. Out of suffering, I wrote this poem. It is called
“Please Call Me by My True Names,” because I have many names,
and when you call me by any of them, I have to say, “Yes.”

Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow –
even today I am still arriving.

Look deeply: every second I am arriving
to be a bud on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
to fear and to hope.

The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death
of all that is alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing
on the surface of the river.
And I am the bird
that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily
in the clear water of a pond.
And I am the grass-snake
that silently feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.
And I am the arms merchant,
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the pirate,
my heart not yet capable
of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo,
with plenty of power in my hands.
And I am the man who has to pay
his “debt of blood” to my people
dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.

My joy is like Spring, so warm
it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.
My pain is like a river of tears,
so vast it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and my laughter at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart
can be left open,
the door of compassion.

—  Thich Nhat Hanh