Happy Holidays, pastelmice!
Title: Holidays Meditations
For: pastelmice
From: solarpillar
Rating: G to PG-13
Warning: Slight violent imageries involving War
Characters: Horsepersons, and everyone, and the Endless.
The motorcycles were once horses. Black horse, red horse, white horse and pale horse. Near two millennia later almost no one rode horses for transport anymore, so they became motorcycles. By the time this is written they are probably sport-cars. Only time will tell if they'll take the shape of coloured teleporters and as Pollution may not exist anymore, if the new horseman will be Broken Machinery and his teleporter will jam all the time. And maybe thanks to this self-destructive characteristic we will not have the Apocalypse anymore.
Or maybe Pollution will simply come back, his teleporter leaking radiation and harmful gasses.
Pollution is our baby. And he loves us. You will love him too when you realise that there are no mosquitoes in the cities and sunsets are prettier, and when you see rainbows in puddles of leaked oil or how lights flood the cities at night. Many-coloured debris ornate the local park's lawn which, in a certain set of mind, can appear quite poetic. And when you get to it, arts such as painting are merely controlled Pollution.
Then you will hate him and regret giving birth to him when you doctor informs you that you are dying from cancer and your children are allergic to a dozen of substances, and when you came home all your pet fish have died from an excess of phosphorus that promoted a sudden growth of blue algae which choked the air out of all your precious fish. You also cannot sleep after a long day because it's too bright and too loud even at 2 in the morning. Your breakfast is rich in mercury and traces of radiation.
And with or without Pollution there will be Famine. He also comes in many forms as context demands. He can be lack of food, anorexia, bulimia or when you forget to eat because you are too busy working, studying, playing, writing, drawing, painting, reading, sleeping or anything else that you deem more important than eating. Famine is not only the consequence of a natural disaster, but also a self-sought self-harming ritual.
You loved Famine when you have thinned down from what was considered 'too fat' to 'slim'. You hated him when you nearly collapsed from malnourishment. Children skip lunch to play video games. Adults skip lunch because of overtime work. And are always those who simply cannot afford food.
He controls the markets in way a seductress controls heartstrings and lusts. He is there after a disaster and he is there when there is not. He can make enough people starve when there is plenty of food. And even when one eats as one needs, he can always manage to have you famished in the heart or mind. When enough people are famished in common sense and kindness while others are bloated in wrath, there’s War.
War is somewhere. Always. Pollution and Famine can be her excuse to exist, but she can work relatively solo too. Even without Death she may be present, as long as the impulse for confrontation is there. Imagine a future where everybody is immortal and for whatever reason they still chop each other in pieces. It would be Valhalla on Earth and her paradise. In our video games and made-up stories, it has already happened. People make War in the comfort of their room or the dimly lit Internet café, through a screen and pieces of machines, and dream of a more real War... While is she also out there, in real guns and canons aimed at real persons, in the piling of corpses and empty bullet shells. And she is always in our head. The bombs are still falling in the head of old war veterans and explode into experience points in the head of first-world youths. We are all her little boys, wanting little toys.
Those who are already hers often want to escape her rather than play with her. She is not just sharp swords and solid spears, falling napalms and gunshots, poison gasses and altered viruses, cutting lasers and nanites or any acts and tools that existed for war. She is not only in muddy trenches, flying debris and infected wounds. She is not only in leftover mines that still killed even though the official war was long gone, yet the ghost of a war still kills and waits, ready to spark and ignite a new war. She was and is in all of the above, but she is also there, with her little boys, from daily verbal office confrontations to family vendetta to gangs wars to organised sports. She is always there, sitting in a primitive part of our mind, waiting to get us to play a game. Then she'll party and drink our blood and sweat like cocktails.
To say it’s painful to play with her would be an understatement. It’s like playing with fire by swimming in it without any protection. Something will be burnt beyond recognition. But she was beautiful, and little boys are drawn to her. Dancing her can be like celebrating an anniversary, wild and exciting. It's only after the party ends that one realises that most if not all blood was lost from the body. Then it'll be waiting for Death.
Death is always here. You know him. He'll come for you after you are killed and where you go after that is probably not his business. But if you’re alive and need help, you can ask for him and he’ll wave his scythe at you, at which point you’ll be hopefully scared enough to go on living and probably living better than you used to because you’ve seen the faint glow from inside where his eyes should be and long story short it was telling you to get off your lazy ass and do something productive. Whether you understood it or not, your kidneys did and you are now tripping on adrenaline. See, your kidneys are smarter than you.
It will be Aziraphale and Crowley's business, where you go after Death. And yours. And His Ineffable One's. But you don't need to think about it now. After all, the Plan is Ineffable and the best one can do is to live one's life as well as one can. Now imagine your future. Imagine a boot... No, imagine a nice pair of fluffy slippers on your feet and a cup of hot cocoa in your hands, and you're not allergic to them. You have a smile on your face and it's not became you're drugged. You are waiting for a train... A metaphorical train, of course, and you know exactly where your train tickets, towel, luggage, wallet and other important things are and they are not on that thief running away from you. They are where they should be. The train has arrived. Bon voyage.
(But remember, The Four Horsepersons are always here on Earth in one way or another, celebrating their non-anniversary together or alone, with or without you, by being who they are. And even in our heads, they are sometimes glorified rather than feared, and they celebrate to both facts. Thus they are always around us, dancing with us till we drop. They are happy.
You are not going to let some anthropomorphic personifications out-happy you, are you? Now make the journey like a party and give the world your best smile.)
The party go-ers:
War
drinks
the bloodthirst of mortals
like cherry daiquiri
she was glorified
she was feared
but in the end
she was but war
and endless pain
and the only winner
can only be her
( not her little boys and their little toys )
Pollution and Famine
hand in hand
people starve
the food was spoiled
the food was gone
who still remember that the mixed fabric was once taboo?
who still remember that the sky was once dull?
who still remember that the rivers were once clear and full of fish?
Pollution took them away and Famine made his nest
Death
has never left
and
is everywhere
even in life
mortals
die every instant
so they could change
as death was the end
of everything
even of
a state of mind
The Wake of Dream was an event Anathema did not forget. She remembered Destiny, who was chained to the book like she was once chained to hers. She was grateful that she let go of the second book. She felt free without knowing the future. Yet Destiny told her that the book was always there.
The only thing Newton Pulsifer remembered of the near-end of the world was Anathema was a witch, he was a witchfinder set to kill witches yet ended up marrying one. It was destiny, he thought.
Adam Young liked Desire. He-she was, well, Desire, and it was good to have desire in life, lest everything became boring and Death would be welcome. It wasn't just about wanting, but knowing the consequences of wanting.
And to know if it was worth it, to want and get what one wanted.
Adam Young knew that, in his case, it was totally worth it.
Aziraphale and Crowley welcomed Delirium at times, when they were tired of reality and needed escape. They would drink until they were drunk and Delirium would be there. It was not very helpful, but it was not like they knew any alternative.
Then there were days where they decided to sit back and enjoy what life threw at them and ended up receive the metaphorical equivalent of cake, and met Delight instead.
Destruction was retired. Yet the destruction did not stop, merely became undirected. With time humanity and other beings learned to do it properly. After all, if the marble did not break, then no statue would have been made.
You met Death once. You probably cannot remember. It was when you were born and she was there. Then you grew up oblivious to her presence, fearing her and avoiding her, without knowing that it was futile because she was always there. Then for one reason or another you will meet her again. She will close the book of your story, put the chairs on the desks, turn off the lights and lock the door. Class dismissed. Then you may wake up in another room with another book. Or not at all. You may have an idea of what happens after. Then again, you probably don't, and after the book closed you were unable to make up a story and ended up wandering from one reality to another until you ceased to exist. Then again, it already happened.
(She and Azrael are both one and distinct beings. There are many kinds of deaths, after all.)
Aziraphale seemed gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. But the actual truth was that his sexuality was closer to the tree than the monkeys and his mood only as gay as the soil the tree was on. He was however more English than the English themselves, despite being a technically a naturalised citizen at best. At worst he would be an alien spy.
Aziraphale, being ethereal and immortal, is still here. He also never sleeps. But fear not, he is more bent on not selling his precious books than smiting you for wrongdoings. Like reading blasphemous fanfictions.
Crowley was a bad demon. By that it meant he would make a charming friend rather than fiend. Nonetheless, he was a demon and still is a demon. He spreads the Seven Deadly Sins with alarming efficacy. Right now he is tempting you to go on tumblr or TV Tropes after reading all the works on Good Omens Holiday Exchange. Don't do your work. Sit back and read fanfictions. Then get mad when people get mad at you for not working and read fanfictions. See? Easy job. You can do it too. Join us for the cheap cost of your soul and you may have the satisfaction of a secret troll.
(But really, being bad is bad and being good is only good if it is indeed good. Just smile and make others smile. You are going to leave this party now, onto the next metaphorical train, where another party is held. Imagine your future, remember the past, have fun in the present and give everybody your best smile.
Happy Holidays, and let every single day be like a holiday.)
Happy Holidays, pastelmice, from your Secret Writer/Artist!
For: pastelmice
From: solarpillar
Rating: G to PG-13
Warning: Slight violent imageries involving War
Characters: Horsepersons, and everyone, and the Endless.
The motorcycles were once horses. Black horse, red horse, white horse and pale horse. Near two millennia later almost no one rode horses for transport anymore, so they became motorcycles. By the time this is written they are probably sport-cars. Only time will tell if they'll take the shape of coloured teleporters and as Pollution may not exist anymore, if the new horseman will be Broken Machinery and his teleporter will jam all the time. And maybe thanks to this self-destructive characteristic we will not have the Apocalypse anymore.
Or maybe Pollution will simply come back, his teleporter leaking radiation and harmful gasses.
Pollution is our baby. And he loves us. You will love him too when you realise that there are no mosquitoes in the cities and sunsets are prettier, and when you see rainbows in puddles of leaked oil or how lights flood the cities at night. Many-coloured debris ornate the local park's lawn which, in a certain set of mind, can appear quite poetic. And when you get to it, arts such as painting are merely controlled Pollution.
Then you will hate him and regret giving birth to him when you doctor informs you that you are dying from cancer and your children are allergic to a dozen of substances, and when you came home all your pet fish have died from an excess of phosphorus that promoted a sudden growth of blue algae which choked the air out of all your precious fish. You also cannot sleep after a long day because it's too bright and too loud even at 2 in the morning. Your breakfast is rich in mercury and traces of radiation.
And with or without Pollution there will be Famine. He also comes in many forms as context demands. He can be lack of food, anorexia, bulimia or when you forget to eat because you are too busy working, studying, playing, writing, drawing, painting, reading, sleeping or anything else that you deem more important than eating. Famine is not only the consequence of a natural disaster, but also a self-sought self-harming ritual.
You loved Famine when you have thinned down from what was considered 'too fat' to 'slim'. You hated him when you nearly collapsed from malnourishment. Children skip lunch to play video games. Adults skip lunch because of overtime work. And are always those who simply cannot afford food.
He controls the markets in way a seductress controls heartstrings and lusts. He is there after a disaster and he is there when there is not. He can make enough people starve when there is plenty of food. And even when one eats as one needs, he can always manage to have you famished in the heart or mind. When enough people are famished in common sense and kindness while others are bloated in wrath, there’s War.
War is somewhere. Always. Pollution and Famine can be her excuse to exist, but she can work relatively solo too. Even without Death she may be present, as long as the impulse for confrontation is there. Imagine a future where everybody is immortal and for whatever reason they still chop each other in pieces. It would be Valhalla on Earth and her paradise. In our video games and made-up stories, it has already happened. People make War in the comfort of their room or the dimly lit Internet café, through a screen and pieces of machines, and dream of a more real War... While is she also out there, in real guns and canons aimed at real persons, in the piling of corpses and empty bullet shells. And she is always in our head. The bombs are still falling in the head of old war veterans and explode into experience points in the head of first-world youths. We are all her little boys, wanting little toys.
Those who are already hers often want to escape her rather than play with her. She is not just sharp swords and solid spears, falling napalms and gunshots, poison gasses and altered viruses, cutting lasers and nanites or any acts and tools that existed for war. She is not only in muddy trenches, flying debris and infected wounds. She is not only in leftover mines that still killed even though the official war was long gone, yet the ghost of a war still kills and waits, ready to spark and ignite a new war. She was and is in all of the above, but she is also there, with her little boys, from daily verbal office confrontations to family vendetta to gangs wars to organised sports. She is always there, sitting in a primitive part of our mind, waiting to get us to play a game. Then she'll party and drink our blood and sweat like cocktails.
To say it’s painful to play with her would be an understatement. It’s like playing with fire by swimming in it without any protection. Something will be burnt beyond recognition. But she was beautiful, and little boys are drawn to her. Dancing her can be like celebrating an anniversary, wild and exciting. It's only after the party ends that one realises that most if not all blood was lost from the body. Then it'll be waiting for Death.
Death is always here. You know him. He'll come for you after you are killed and where you go after that is probably not his business. But if you’re alive and need help, you can ask for him and he’ll wave his scythe at you, at which point you’ll be hopefully scared enough to go on living and probably living better than you used to because you’ve seen the faint glow from inside where his eyes should be and long story short it was telling you to get off your lazy ass and do something productive. Whether you understood it or not, your kidneys did and you are now tripping on adrenaline. See, your kidneys are smarter than you.
It will be Aziraphale and Crowley's business, where you go after Death. And yours. And His Ineffable One's. But you don't need to think about it now. After all, the Plan is Ineffable and the best one can do is to live one's life as well as one can. Now imagine your future. Imagine a boot... No, imagine a nice pair of fluffy slippers on your feet and a cup of hot cocoa in your hands, and you're not allergic to them. You have a smile on your face and it's not became you're drugged. You are waiting for a train... A metaphorical train, of course, and you know exactly where your train tickets, towel, luggage, wallet and other important things are and they are not on that thief running away from you. They are where they should be. The train has arrived. Bon voyage.
(But remember, The Four Horsepersons are always here on Earth in one way or another, celebrating their non-anniversary together or alone, with or without you, by being who they are. And even in our heads, they are sometimes glorified rather than feared, and they celebrate to both facts. Thus they are always around us, dancing with us till we drop. They are happy.
You are not going to let some anthropomorphic personifications out-happy you, are you? Now make the journey like a party and give the world your best smile.)
The party go-ers:
War
drinks
the bloodthirst of mortals
like cherry daiquiri
she was glorified
she was feared
but in the end
she was but war
and endless pain
and the only winner
can only be her
( not her little boys and their little toys )
Pollution and Famine
hand in hand
people starve
the food was spoiled
the food was gone
who still remember that the mixed fabric was once taboo?
who still remember that the sky was once dull?
who still remember that the rivers were once clear and full of fish?
Pollution took them away and Famine made his nest
Death
has never left
and
is everywhere
even in life
mortals
die every instant
so they could change
as death was the end
of everything
even of
a state of mind
The Wake of Dream was an event Anathema did not forget. She remembered Destiny, who was chained to the book like she was once chained to hers. She was grateful that she let go of the second book. She felt free without knowing the future. Yet Destiny told her that the book was always there.
The only thing Newton Pulsifer remembered of the near-end of the world was Anathema was a witch, he was a witchfinder set to kill witches yet ended up marrying one. It was destiny, he thought.
Adam Young liked Desire. He-she was, well, Desire, and it was good to have desire in life, lest everything became boring and Death would be welcome. It wasn't just about wanting, but knowing the consequences of wanting.
And to know if it was worth it, to want and get what one wanted.
Adam Young knew that, in his case, it was totally worth it.
Aziraphale and Crowley welcomed Delirium at times, when they were tired of reality and needed escape. They would drink until they were drunk and Delirium would be there. It was not very helpful, but it was not like they knew any alternative.
Then there were days where they decided to sit back and enjoy what life threw at them and ended up receive the metaphorical equivalent of cake, and met Delight instead.
Destruction was retired. Yet the destruction did not stop, merely became undirected. With time humanity and other beings learned to do it properly. After all, if the marble did not break, then no statue would have been made.
You met Death once. You probably cannot remember. It was when you were born and she was there. Then you grew up oblivious to her presence, fearing her and avoiding her, without knowing that it was futile because she was always there. Then for one reason or another you will meet her again. She will close the book of your story, put the chairs on the desks, turn off the lights and lock the door. Class dismissed. Then you may wake up in another room with another book. Or not at all. You may have an idea of what happens after. Then again, you probably don't, and after the book closed you were unable to make up a story and ended up wandering from one reality to another until you ceased to exist. Then again, it already happened.
(She and Azrael are both one and distinct beings. There are many kinds of deaths, after all.)
Aziraphale seemed gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. But the actual truth was that his sexuality was closer to the tree than the monkeys and his mood only as gay as the soil the tree was on. He was however more English than the English themselves, despite being a technically a naturalised citizen at best. At worst he would be an alien spy.
Aziraphale, being ethereal and immortal, is still here. He also never sleeps. But fear not, he is more bent on not selling his precious books than smiting you for wrongdoings. Like reading blasphemous fanfictions.
Crowley was a bad demon. By that it meant he would make a charming friend rather than fiend. Nonetheless, he was a demon and still is a demon. He spreads the Seven Deadly Sins with alarming efficacy. Right now he is tempting you to go on tumblr or TV Tropes after reading all the works on Good Omens Holiday Exchange. Don't do your work. Sit back and read fanfictions. Then get mad when people get mad at you for not working and read fanfictions. See? Easy job. You can do it too. Join us for the cheap cost of your soul and you may have the satisfaction of a secret troll.
(But really, being bad is bad and being good is only good if it is indeed good. Just smile and make others smile. You are going to leave this party now, onto the next metaphorical train, where another party is held. Imagine your future, remember the past, have fun in the present and give everybody your best smile.
Happy Holidays, and let every single day be like a holiday.)
Happy Holidays, pastelmice, from your Secret Writer/Artist!