GODS TALKING SHHH

[agoston!]

@agoston!
@ese korsi

a fent említett két személy konyhája

 

[agoston!]

SENTIMENTALISM

GF és Máté által inspirált + avatar

 

[ese korsi]

ART IS BEAUTY

Art is lovely because it captures emotions, ideas, and beauty in a way words often cannot. It connects people across time and cultures, expressing the depths of human experience. Whether through color, sound, movement, or form, art has the power to inspire, heal, and transform perspectives. It reminds us of our creativity, our struggles, and our shared humanity.

 

[ese korsi]

A kind-hearted, innocent person meets a manipulative or morally corrupt individual. Over time, the bad person influences the good one, leading them down a darker path.

A genuine bond forms, but their differences inevitably tear them apart. A good person’s influence gradually changes the bad person, helping them find a path to redemption, Beauty and the Beast—Belle’s kindness helps transform the Beast. The contrasting values of each partner can create a constant push-and-pull, driving intense emotional conflict. The good person may struggle with their principles when drawn to the allure of the bad person's danger or mystery. There's a popular saying that "the eyes are the window to the soul," suggesting that they reveal our true feelings, emotions, and even aspects of our personality. The eyes, they never lie. They invite us to look deeper, consider the context, and combine our observations with other clues for a fuller understanding.

 

[agoston!]

ART IS THE KEY- TO KEEP THE MIND ALIVE TO RESTORE HUMANITY

Death itself is the cruelest artist, painting finality with strokes of unbearable elegance. It adorns the world with wilted roses, with the soft hush of breath fading into the abyss. There is a haunting beauty in its cold embrace—the stillness of a body at peace, the tragic grace of a soul untethered. And yet, it is merciless, tearing us away from the warmth of existence, leaving only echoes of what once was.

There is potent enough to numb the knowledge of death’s certainty, yet there is something mesmerizing in surrendering to the idea—allowing oneself to drift in its dark perfume, to dance on the precipice where life and oblivion kiss.

 

[ese korsi]

We must make a study of our God: what he loves, what he hates, how he speaks and acts. We cannot imitate a God whose features and habits we have never learned. We must make a study of him if we want to become like him. We must seek his face. GODS TALKING. @Diana. inspired

 

[ese korsi]

 

[agoston!]

Soft, aching, luminous like a candle flickering in the twilight. It beats not only with blood, but with longing, with poetry, with memories too heavy for one lifetime. It is the kind of heart that loves even when it hurts, that clings to the scent of a fading rose, that weeps at the sound of distant piano keys.

To such a heart, the vampire bows—not out of hunger, but reverence. For in that tender pulse, they see what their own veins have long forgotten: the warmth of mortal ache, the beauty of fleeting emotion, the trembling vulnerability that they, in their immortality, can no longer possess.

 

[ese korsi]

Some bad words hurts much more than physical abuse. One harsh word or sentence can echo in your mind forever. But God? You can say anything, do anything, and He will forgive you. God never does anything that would hurt you. GODS TALKING. GODS TALKING. GODS TALKING. GODS TALKING.

So won't you, please (Be my, be my baby), be my little baby (My one and only baby), say you'll be my darlin' (Be my, be my baby), be my baby now (My one and only baby), oh, oh, oh, oh I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see. For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three you know I will adore you 'til eternity.

 

[agoston!]

These words are not a confession—they are a creed. Every drop spilled, every wound worn like a badge, speaks of who I am more truthfully than any name or title. I am the pain I endured in silence, the love I gave without return, the nights I broke open just to feel something real.

What I bleed is memory. Devotion. Regret. Hope dressed in scars. I am the quiet violence of a heart that refuses to harden, even when the world demands it.

 

[ese korsi]

When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, "Why god? Why me?" and the thundering voice of God answered, There's just something about you that pisses me off. I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.

 

[agoston!]

She did not cry with tears, but with time—bleeding hours from her chest until all that remained was a rhythm too soft to hear, too strong to die.

“She’s fading,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “But not in the way mortals do. She’s burning inward. Quietly. Completely.”

 

[ese korsi]

Gods talking... but who is GOD?

 

[ese korsi]

Is it slavery if you get what you want? Is it slavery if you get what you want? Is it slavery if you get what you want? Is it slavery if you get what you want? Why do so many people think that we are the slaves of God? Why do so many people think that we are the slaves of God?

 

[ese korsi]

 

[agoston!]

“Do you think God still hears us?” she asked softly, as if the question might break from its own tenderness.

Her companion, Caelen, didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed just beyond the sun.
“God doesn’t hear,” he said at last. “He remembers.”

This world, this era born of peace, hadn’t come from prayer—but from sacrifice, from losses, and from the realization that humanity was not made in the image of gods, but in the remnants of their memory.

“We are the echo,” Elira whispered. “A memory God keeps—not because we are holy, but because we are fragile.”

And in this utopia, fragility was the last sacred thing. Not strength. Not power. But the ability to weep even when no one hurts you. To love even when there is nothing left to fear.

 

[ese korsi]

 

[ese korsi]

Who am I supposed to please? Who am I?

 

[agoston!]

“We built paradise from the wreckage of our sorrow, and still, we look to the sky—not for answers, but for memory.”

They no longer buried the dead, because no one had died in a hundred years. Yet the gardens were full of silent stones, names carved by hands that remembered grief even in a time without it. Grief had become a form of art—a way of honoring what had once hurt.

They stood there, together but quiet, listening to a world that no longer cried. The wind carried only petals now. No smoke. No screams. No prayers.

And that was the strangest thing of all—without pain, no one prayed anymore. They didn’t need to. Yet Elira sometimes whispered words into the dusk, not from need, but from memory. Like a song she didn’t want to forget.

 

[agoston!]

Not in it, beneath it—where the water turned to glass and the glass turned to silence. Children whispered of the Angel in salt-stained drawings; elders denied her softly, as one denies the taste of a dream they secretly crave.

“You call me Death,” she said once to a boy who wandered too far into the fog. “But I am only the breath between endings. The quiet proof that something was ever real enough to end at all.”