Again, this wasn't written by me. It's called "Embracing an OTP," by LydiaTheda.
... One day you say to me, “These two characters.” I reply, “What about them?” You tell me, “These characters belong together. As friends, as lovers, as mentor and student. As enemies, as partners, as brothers and sisters.” Platonic, Romantic, Whatever it may be. I will look at you and disbelieve. I will say, “How ever did you come up with that idea?” I will bring you the text. I will show you author’s interviews, official wikis, all the canon there is. I will search out every bit of fanon I can find that disproves your case. I will point out how the two characters have never been friends. I will proclaim that they were only ever friends. I will count the times when they battle and kill each other. I will declare that they fell in love from the start and that their romance is legendary. I will tell you about the chasms between them. The age gap, the class differences, the species divide. The arguments that broke them apart and that they never recovered from. The power of Fate, who said that it was impossible. I will say, “They cannot be together. Not in the way you describe. It could never happen.” You will tell me, “No. That isn’t true.” I will say, “You are mad.” But madness, you know, is as real as you make it. So I humor you. I bid you, “Prove it to me.” You do. You write a new story. You paint a new picture. You draw me in with your words. You astound me with your art. You carve out a place where these two are partners side-by-side in the face of any adversity. You shape a world where they form a relationship no one else can understand. You create a universe where their friendship (or their enmity) blazes, a candle against the shadows of darkness. You show me how they can be together despite anything despite everything. I read, and I believe. Within your saga I fervently defend them as if they were my own. I look at you and I say, “That moved me.” But then I tell you, “I am still unsure.” And so you bring them together again. And again and again and again. You lure them close in ways believable and not, magical and mundane but through it all these two characters remain eternal. I come to know these two, over time in this way sharing friendship and romance and brotherhood. It is done so well and so often and in so many forms, that I come to share your views. I no longer care what anyone else may have to say about it. I defend these two to others as vehemently as you did to me. Your pairing has become mine. These characters together have become mine. Their relationship in all its many forms becomes my new water, my new air, my new life. I live and breathe them together just as you do. And then one day you come to me and you point out another pair of characters (and maybe one’s even the same as before) with that incomprehensible, unknowable connection … And so, it begins all over again. Also known as when you love the same thing I do I run to your arms because I feel like I'm the only one who loves it in this world and I need someone to understand how I feel because not enough people (INSERT INCOHERENT RAMBLING HERE)
Why yes, I did draw this myself, thank you for asking.
To understand what I am saying below, you will have had to read the Wings of Fire series by Tui T. Sutherland, who, coincidentally, is one of the authors for the Warriors series. If you like dragons, you should read them! (Wings of Fire, that is, not Warriors, which is *more* about cats.) So, I'm not completely happy with how the relationship between Starflight and Sunny turned out. *SPOILER ALERT* I mean, Sunny, can't you find it in your heart to love him? He loved you for nearly his whole life! But nuuuuuuu, Starflight has to end up with Fatespeaker, and as cute as she is, she is like a more annoying version of Sunny. Disclaimer: This wasn't written by me. I just found it and thought it looked interesting.
... You were on your way home when you died. It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me. And that’s when you met me. “What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?” “You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words. “There was a… a truck and it was skidding…” “Yup,” I said. “I… I died?” “Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said. You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?” “More or less,” I said. “Are you god?” You asked. “Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.” “My kids… my wife,” you said. “What about them?” “Will they be all right?” “That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.” You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.” “Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?” “Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.” “Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,” “All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?” “Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.” “So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.” “Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.” I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you've gained all the experiences it had. “You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.” “How many times have I been reincarnated, then?” “Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.” “Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?” “Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.” “Where you come from?” You said. “Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.” “Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.” “Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.” “So what’s the point of it all?” “Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?” “Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted. I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.” “You mean mankind? You want us to mature?” “No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?” “There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.” You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…” “All you. Different incarnations of you.” “Wait. I’m everyone!?” “Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?” “Or who will ever live, yes.” “I’m Abraham Lincoln?” “And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added. “I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled. “And you’re the millions he killed.” “I’m Jesus?” “And you’re everyone who followed him.” You fell silent. “Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.” You thought for a long time. “Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?” “Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.” “Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?” “No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.” “So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…” “An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.” And I sent you on your way. On the 29th and 30th of April, all of 7th grade went to the Vancouver Art Gallery. It was... fine, I suppose. On the 29th, we were a lot more busy travelling around. One thing for sure on both days, it was so. Hot. So very. Very. Hot. Like, the heat took out a quarter of the field trip for me.
It was kind of fun. I mean, there's been more fun things in life. It's not boring to look at art, but there are other things I'd rather be doing. Well, I don't know how the experience could've been enhanced anymore when we were looking at art and taking note of all the little things that made it so very, very artistic. In the workshops we had to make a painting with oil pastels and put water on that. It had an interesting effect. The next day we had to take picture of landscapes that we made in a sandbox. Extraordinary, I know. Don't worry, it wasn't that hard. We learned stuff we already learned in school. But we were only taught it at school in anticipation of our trip to the Art Gallery. The only difference was that we got to see the actual pictures. And there was a lot more gushing over Burtynsky's pictures. That was mostly the tour guide. All in all, I'm glad we didn't have to do any school work for 2 days, and we had a Pro-D day in the same week. Now, I'd post a picture of one of Burtynsky's photos (we looked at Lawren Harris and Emily Carr too. Their pictures. Not them, of course. They're dead) but the laptop I'm using right now is giving me grief, so if you want to look at pictures so badly, look them up yourself. Cheers, Miwa. |
Miwa (insert whatever you might imagine my last name to be and if you don't know and are actually imagining what it might be I suggest you go to the psychiatrist because clearly you aren't getting out enough)
You know how people say they need a job? This is actually not true. Of course, they don't want to be idle all the time (because clearly they've never heard of the Internet), but really, they just need money, and this could easily be accomplished by robbing someone, although it wouldn't look very good on their permanent record. Archives |