“At every moment, the living creature is exposed to dangers from its surroundings, and at every moment, it must drw upon something in its suroundings to satisfy its needs. The career and destiney of a living things are bound with its interchanges with environment, not externally, but in the…
Extremely Redundant
I'm not entirely sure what I'm going for by doing this, and I'm quite sure that whatever I'm posting here is something that you've come across before (making it...DUN DUN DUUN...extremely redundant).
Anyways, If you're here, then my thanks for taking the time to look, and come back soon!
Also, I would like to point out that unless specified, the art here is not owned by me. I merely link the stuff I like, and credit the artist responsible.
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(Source: crimesagainsthughsmanatees)
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حاجات حلوة: من أصعب بس أجمل الحاجات إن الواحد ميتكلمش غير لمّا فعلا يكون عنده حاجة...
من أصعب بس أجمل الحاجات إن الواحد ميتكلمش غير لمّا فعلا يكون عنده حاجة يقولها.
زهقت من الكلام في الفاضية والمليانة وكلام ولا بيودي ولا بيجيب.
حشو.
بناقصه.
العيشة لوحدي قللت درجة تحملي للدوشة والزحمة - خاصة تلك الفارغة من أي معني، أو منطق، أو احساس حقيقي.
وزودت امتناني بالهدوء والفضاء.
واكدت…
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Jim Henson (September 24, 1936 – May 16, 1990). Henson may be gone, but his magic is not.
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Afterthought (excerpt)
This is an excerpt of something that I’m working on right now. Hopefully it won’t fall by the wayside like the majority of my projects.
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“Good morning, Mr. Blake.”
He opened his eyes slowly, as if the feeling was unfamiliar to him. Eyes unfocused, all he could see was white, and for a moment he wondered if he’d gone blind. Harold Blake chastized himself for thinking so, realizing that blind folk always saw black, not white. Then again, he’d never asked one, and even if he had the chance, he’s not sure if he could’ve done so in the first place. He wouldn’t think it proper, Harold Blake, and he was all about being proper.
“Mr. Blake, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can bloody hear you just bloody fine.” is what Harold wanted to say, but his attention was momentarily diverted by the realization that he couldn’t quite speak. The words formed in his head just fine, but attempts to vocalize them failed miserably. He tried again, and again, but in the end, all he managed was a miniscule croak. He was not pleased with his perfomance so far. It simply was not proper, at all.
Turning his head seemed to be another herculean task, as his muscles seemed to be as uncooperative as his words. Apparently, his entire body was in full revolt, for a reason that escaped him at the moment. He could almost visualize them, like those rowdy kids he’d seen a few months ago, all hollering for justice and equality in their designer clothes and eternally-smiling porcelain masks. He could even remember how giddy he felt when all those upper class ‘rebels’ were blown away by the water cannons, sent back home all dripping wet and miserable.
Harold Blake might be a proper man, but he’s also a bit of a prick, you see.
Resolving to quell the rebellion of his own body, Harold Blake struggled again to move his neck slightly, at least to face the person who’s been addressing him for a few minutes now. The struggle was a taxing one, and he could feel the sweat beading up upon his forehead as he finally managed to see anything aside from the overbearing white that he was growing less fond of every second.
He grew even less fond of it when he realized that the entire room he lay in was white. The walls, ceiling, bed sheets, lampshade, and even the doorknob in the distance was white. He could see a single window (in a white frame) that showed nothing outside but a constant whiteness. Blake knew that the white colors (well, it’s just one color, really) were intended to pacify and comfort the people in the room, but it was having quite the adverse effect on him. It made him wish he could speak, simply so he could curse outloud, even if it were glaringly improper.
“Ah, it seems that you can hear me. Mr. Blake, please calm down, you’re going to be just fine.”
“How can I calm down when I can’t even speak, you bloody idiot?” Harold was growing excessively impatient with regards to this physical rebellion, and so he poured his frustration (with quite the improper relish) into cursing the man standing beside his bed. The man, however idiotic Blake thought him to be, lacked many of the necessary qualifications for idiocy. At first sight, Harold was instantly reminded of the famous American businessman with the ridiculous hair, the one with the television show. It was interesting, because unlike the businessman (or maybe quite like him, Harold thought) the man had no hair. None whatsoever. Not an eyelash, an eyebrow, or even a silly sex offender mustache. He seemed smug and powerful, but also excessively ridiculous, especially with him wearing that white suit. “Again with the bloody white?” Blake thought, wondering if there was some sort of unspoken rule about other colors in that place. Maybe the owner just had an unexplainable fear of colors…
“Or maybe they’re all bloody nuts. Who cares? What am I doing here in the first place?” Harold thought, again cursing with delight while not being able to talk. He thought for a moment that he might just get used to it.
“All right, Mr. Blake. This is going to feel slightly….uhm…interesting.”
Harold braced himself for some sort of bodily invasion that he’d be ashamed to discuss in a future family gathering but happily boast about with a good bottle of vodka at his favorite bar. But all he could feel was his limbs sobering up from whatever it was that put them in that particularly rebellious mood. He moved his hands, wiggled his toes, and touched his nose with the tip of his tongue (always a winner at parties), then he tensed up slightly as he attempted to talk.
“W-Where am I?”
The words came out effortlessly, delighting Harold, even though he secretly felt bad at bidding his improper attitude farewell.
The man drew closer to the bed, seemingly amused by the question, as if he’d heard it countless times before. Harold could not have guessed the words that came afterwards, even if he’d tried (he’d argue later that he could’ve gotten it at the third guess.)
“Why, this is the afterlife, of course!”
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*Chokes on his lunch*
(via entrenous7)
- حاجات حلوة: “At every moment, the living creature is exposed to dangers from its...
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(Source: crimesagainsthughsmanatees)
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(Source: crimesagainsthughsmanatees)
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