Bella Ramsey Is Doing An Amazing Job As Ellie And If You Disagree You’re Wrong

Remember, a Jedi’s strength flows from the Force. But beware: Anger, fear, aggression - the dark side, are they. Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny. Luke… Luke… do not… Do not underestimate the powers of the Emperor…or suffer your father’s fate you will. Luke… when gone am I, the last of the Jedi, will you be. Luke… the Force runs strong in your family. Pass on what you have learned. Luke… There… is… another… Sk… Sky… walker…

someone: *mentions star wars*

me: 

I don't care if religion is real or not and it has probably been said here before, but if I were Mary, I would've stopped believing in God the second I saw my son being almost dragged through the streets by the Romans.

God promised he would be the savior, that I would carry His son and give birth to him.

I gestated him, I felt him in my womb, I felt him kick. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh.

And when the time came, I held him when he took his first breaths, when he wailed after being born, when he was still covered in my blood, when he was but a small helpless newborn.

And I comforted him, and I nursed him, I gave him everything he would ever need. I loved him. I raised him.

I tended his wounds while on childhood. Probably taking care of his scrapped knees, maybe some splinters when he was learning to be a carpenter. Cleaning his tears after a nightmare, holding him tight after he got lost in a crowd.

I saw him perform his first miracle, my brain remembering how all those years ago, that angel promised my son to be not only the savior but also the son of God. The happiness of knowing he will be safe because he's the son of God, isn't he? God would never allow anything to happen to him.

See him grow, performing more miracles, watching him gather crowds and followers. Hearing him teach those same crowds, inspire people, help the poor, heal the wounded, resurrect the dead...

After 30 years, I would probably would have felt secure that God would never allow anything to happen to him. To his son. To my son.

I imagine how heartbreaking would have been to Mary to hear that he had been betrayed. That he was imprisoned by the Romans. That he was in danger.

And she probably prayed and prayed, begged God to take care of her son. Her child. Her baby. She was restless, trying to find ways to get to him.

She probably kept her faith and tried to keep a strong belief in God. After all, He's the creator, supreme being that would help keep His son safe.

And then she sees it, the verdict delivered by the hand of Pilate. Her son must die on a cross. And I imagine her faith waver, thinking that no, it has to be a mistake. God will save him. He has to. Her son is not only the savior but also an innocent man.

Yet there he was. Carrying a cross. A crown of thorns over his forehead, the same she had kissed goodnight so many times before. His frame holding the heavy cross, the same frame she had hugged goodbye, probably less than a month ago. His back bloodied by the lashes that the Romans delivered onto him, the same back she rubbed to take the burps out when he was a baby.

And God doesn't help him. He doesn't intervene. He doesn't save her precious little boy. He doesn't hear her begging.

They crucified him, they put nails through his wrists, blood dripping down, the same blood she has running through her veins. And she hears him wail in pain, but she can't hug him and tell him he'll be fine.

She sees him up there, suffering, barely conscious for three consecutive days. Three days when the Romans poked him with a spear, cutting the same ribs, she probably massaged when he was sick as a kid.

And I honestly believe that she would've lost all her faith. She wailed in pain and despair, screaming to the sky in anger, clutching her heart because her baby, the supposed savior, was dead. They took him from her.

She had given her body, her milk, and now her tears, to a God that could not even bother to give her son a merciful end, to take his pain away. She gave everything of her and still lost him.

So I don't think she would've kept being faithful to God or even keep believing in Him. He used her, and it was only then, only when she could see her son being tortured, that she started realizing it.

Birth & Death of Christ

The Virgin of the Lilies † Pietra by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

(insp.)

So, this is for an ex-friend. My therapist just said it would be nice to share it, something about helping me let go... Anyway, it's a sad attempt of poetry <3

The saddest thing about all this is that my door will still be open for you. For any of the others that had walked away from it. Stubborn is the human heart that denies itself a closure. Because under all that scarring, under all that crying, under all that hurting anger, a part of me is still yours, and a part of you is still mine.

Do you remember? Do you remember me when you hear a laugh similar at mine? Do you think of me when you see someone with my same hairstyle? Do you smile as you remember a joke I said once? Do you cry when you realize we are no longer the same? We are no longer mirrors of each other. We don't keep the same images, the same time, the same looks. Do you feel as if a part of you is missing? I do. Every time I believe I hear you laugh, every time I hear someone talk about a series you liked, every time my mother asks how you are.

Why did we change? Why did we grow up? I still remember our positions on that table on the corner, how we shared a salt container because of how awful the food was. How we would play and talk and laugh. We would have philosophical talks. We would discuss the human and divine. We had all the answers and, at the same time, none. We were something and nothing.

Do the walls remember us? Does that table still remember which place each girl took? Do you think they would remember how we laughed? How we cried? How we would stress about simple things?

When life was simpler, when we were still great and proud. When we were infinite, star dust playing with other stars. When we believed in everything and how we would, someday, be great, and together, we would be unstoppable and uncontrollable. When there were four of us. When we were alive. When you were here.

Maybe it's just the human experience to break something so pure and leave it tainted. Split. On the verge of dying but not giving the final blow.

How do I explain it? How do I say to you how much it hurts? How do I tell you how mad it made me when you beg for me to squeeze back into my old self even though I grew out of it? I did it anyway. Because I believed you. Because I loved you. Because I thought, if I squeeze back, everything would be the same. And we would laugh, and we would sit back on that corner table that was ours and share our glorious days again.

I was wrong. I was mistaken. I was cheated. I squeezed back on my sheded skin only to find that you didn't care if I did. I felt a joke. I felt stupid. I feel mad and uncontrollably taunted.

What's worse, I still wait. Sheded skin on hand, I still wait. My mind sits back on our corner table, and I still wait. I wait for the other three glorious girls that I once called sisters. The girls that grew up with me and I believed would stay until I part this world. My life line. My home.

My home is broken. There's nothing that I can do to fix it. I weep. I've lost something too, and it is not coming back. It's gone with the sea and its powerful waves. I long for it, even though deep down I know, it won't come back.

I write this thinking of you, thinking of me, thinking of her, and thinking of she. Thinking of how we are now a past thing. A "used to". A picture hidden on the back of a closet. A faint brush of the past. I think of times when we were interwoven, so closely that others could barely perceive one without the others.

I weep a lost. I cry a missing star. I crave a hint that you are still you, that you still see me every time you close your eyes. I pray that you still feel them, how they used to laugh, how they used to talk, how they used to walk. I don't hate you, no matter what you think, I am mad, that much I will admit.

But I still have space for you, if you ever need a place to stay. The rooms of my heart might have been left, might have been forgotten, but they do not close. I'm too fond of them to tear them apart. Others may say I'm stupid for denying myself the satisfaction of closing the door and forbidden entry again, but I believe there's a certain charm on how the light still hits every spot you used to touch.

I find lovely the way the place fills of cobwebs and dust takes it seat in the places you hang out. How the room is still filled with your scent but now is old and feels cold. I might be stupid, but that hasn't stopped me before.

If you hear this, if you see this, if the wind or the moon is so gentle as to let you know I wrote this for you, please just know, you still have a room in my heart. Sure, now it's cold and dusty and full of melancholic cobwebs. But it's yours. No one, but you will use it. No one, but you can close it.

                         “ sometimes you gotta RUN before you can WALK. ”

riz ahmed as tony stark    —    ( insp. )

Amen.

The next communion will be next Wednesday, brothers, sisters, and non-binary pals

MEL 📣 KING 📣 IS 📣 AN 📣 ADULT 📣 WOMAN 📣 WITH 📣 A 📣 MEDICAL 📣 DEGREE 📣 AND 📣 IS 📣 A 📣 PRACTICING 📣 PHYSICIAN 📣 AND 📣 IS 📣 THE 📣 PRIMARY 📣 CAREGIVER 📣 FOR 📣 HER 📣 SISTER 📣 SHE 📣 IS 📣 VERY 📣 CAPABLE 📣 OF 📣 MAKING 📣 HER 📣 OWN 📣 DECISIONS 📣 SO 📣 STOP 📣 EQUATING 📣 HER 📣 TO 📣 A 📣 CHILD 📣 SO 📣 IF 📣 SHE 📣 WANTS 📣 TO 📣 FUCK 📣 THAT 📣 LOSER 📣 DRUG 📣 ADDICT 📣 WHO 📣 LOOKS 📣 AT 📣 HER 📣 LIKE 📣 SHE 📣 IS 📣 THE 📣 SUN 📣 LET 📣 HER 📣

I'm disappointed in me too

you're not special

I have a very bad feeling about this.

Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope (1977).

I think people often hate Jason for reasons they should feel sorry for him

you hate because he's too perfect? he lives with pressure of everyone's expectations that he'll be perfect.

He has no personality? he was raised a child soldier, a tool for the gods and wasn't allowed to be his own person. despite that he did develop a personality and hera took it from him.

we don't know anything about him? he doesn't know anything about him.

He's not Percy Jackson? he's all too aware of that.