View allAll Photos Tagged Fatigue
It invades me without warnings. It might be an MS symptom that everyone with this disease feels. It might sound like an excuse to many people. Who doesn't need one more hour to sleep? Who couldn't use 10 more minutes of rest? But It goes beyond that. MS Fatigue is different from regular fatigue. It's more intense, It's connected to heat and humidity.
It stops you from your regular responsibilities. It's an invisible, powerful force that drains you. I can have a good night sleep and in the middle of the morning feel exhausted. I battle with myself everyday to stay active and not surrender. The sun could be shining bright, your day filled with experiences to be lived, moments to be seized and your dreams to be accomplished, but if your body says no, your life is on hold. MS Fatigue is frustrating.
- Reshade 3.3
- Camera tools by Otis_inf
- HUD toggle by The_Janitor
- 4K Resolution DSR
Game: Homefront: the Revolution
sets in
in
even the most
resolute
steadfast
tried and true
beggars
KHILKHET overpass
North DHAKA
Photography’s new conscience
I’m introducing a new term in the dictionary “Process Fatigue”, defined as “Spending hours processing an image, being unhappy with the results and then in desperation clicking on a preset only to like it more than your own edit”… oh well, at least I like the final result, so much so that I decided to go the whole-hog and blur the clouds and water for a long-exposure effect.
I'm not dead but I feel like it. ok so this isn't the greatest picture of me but I don't hate it. It's proof that I need a damn vacation. Photos of Vegas to follow in the coming weeks.
i am much happier with the jupiter 8 kmz 50mm f2 m39 on the sony as opposed to the leica m9. so difficult to focus
sony a7rii
jupiter 8 kmz 50mm f2 m39
Ashen
Wise men say that the dark is older than the light. They say it reaches further and that no matter how swiftly the light travels it finds that all it touches was first in darkness.
The nine realms move among Yggdrasil’s many branches, and the world tree stands upon the darkness, her roots delving into caverns where light will never venture.
But what few know is that there is a forest, and above it stars that are as different from our own as the acorn is from the oak.
Among those stars the Ashen fly. Some say they are the light, but in truth they are of the light, each wing a spectrum spread across the void, brilliance coursing through their veins.
The darkness is old but it is the beat of Ashen wings that first counted time. It was when a single great Ashen flew down to rest upon Yggdrasil’s boughs that the light woke among the realms. Time shed its fetters and drew breath. The tree came into bud, and leaves brought the first colour seen only by the Ashen’s eyes.
Time is its own tide and though the Ashen are immortal theirs is an immortality forged from an infinite cycle between life and death. In time the great Ashen fell from the tree of worlds and lay in splendour, resting upon the plains of darkness in the eternal forest, drawing what few breaths remained to it.
Even then the light was dying but still it remained, and the Ashen’s final three breaths became the three ages of our world.
They say the dark is empty, but it is not so. The Bral dwell in the ancient night and they are legion. Their nature and form offer endless variety. A few as old as the Ashen themselves. A multitude newborn from the blackness.
When the Ashen fell there were some few among the many races of the Bral drawn to the great beast, drawn by the pollution of its blood, both fascinated and repelled.
These scavengers crawled from the utter dark and burrowed amid its feathers. A multitude living and dying. Generation upon generation, breeding and building, all within the space of one breath. The Ashen’s dying light was something they both craved and despised. It ate at them, turning night-flesh to dust and ash and cinders, but it filled them with such power, such possibility. And it changed them.
By the second breath the Bral who dwelled upon the Ashen’s vastness had spawned new forms. Some slithered back into the dark. Some fought and died. One form prevailed. The age of the Listeners had arrived.
Much has been left over from the many previous ages of light.
The Listeners had new senses, suited to their new age. They had eyes to perceive the light and in its name they built great temples, glorifying the brilliance that sustained them.
By the drawing of the final breath the light had died to a glimmer. The Listeners mourned it in labyrinthine dungeons. The Ashen lay as a dead thing, covered with the skins shed by countless Bral as they had twisted into their new existence. The world the Listeners had made upon its failing body stood dim and drifted with ash, its plants and animals dying too.
It was then that the Gefn came, or perhaps returned, swimming from the umbral seas. She forced a final change upon the children of the Bral, taking a Listener as her mate, entwining with his spirit and birthing the first man. Born in the image of the Listeners the first man was smaller, his eyes bigger and more acute, better suited to the greying world. His form he took from his father. From his mother he took his soul. Adaptable, inquisitive, filled with the urge to explore. When the final breath ended there would be an age of darkness where nothing but glimmers remained, echoing through the ashes of their ancestors. In such an age mankind would need their mother’s gifts.
In that dark age the cities of men fell into ruin, proud Lathyrus drowned beneath the ash, a dozen others toppled by war or emptied by pestilence and famine. But Gefn’s children clung on. A remnant, shorn of their history, wandering, scavenging, surviving.
And now, as the Ashen is reborn from the ruins of its own body, it will be mankind who decide the future. Something so small steering the destiny of something so great. A new age has come, the first of many before the Ashen once again takes flight into endless possibility. This is the age of man. And the ages that follow will be their legacy.