not asthmatic ♱

Home Is the First Grave Web Weave

[Like Minds Aesthetic Masterpost]]

made a comic about jesus and st. peter, my fav apostle

i have felt the sharp pierce of arrows , i have been caressed by the bullets of hunters. it was expected. it was what i deserved.

to them , i was not the serene creature you say i am. to them , i am a trophy. they will have me gutted and stuffed before the morning comes.

you claimed to be different.

your distaste for what i am was not their steel , cold end. it was not planned with gun sights or targets in my shape.

you were the swift end of a car coming too fast , too hard. something burning too bright , barreling to fast to think about any fragile thing in your way.

An Egyptian programmer created a page dedicated to every Palestinian soul killed by the occupation during the war of extermination in #Gaza.. So far, he has registered 72,000 names.

Each point of light on the screen represents the name of a martyr, and when it is clicked, the name of the person it belongs to appears.

The link is in the first reblog :

This, I am not proud of, as I have not been a practicing Catholic since I was nine years old. Even then, my prayers more often revolved around a desire for a true religious revelation. A prayer to believe in prayer. Retrospectively, I do admit it was rather contradictory.

I struggle still as, ultimately, my belief is that faith is a choice and, at that, a choice I would like nothing more than to make. Yet, my mind allows me nothing so kind. Confirmed in the church as I am, I refuse to take communion. I confess my sins to a reporter's pad rather than a paperback. As the memory of The Hail Mary gathers dust in the back of my mind, as does the leatherbound New Testament under my bed.

To avoid claims of perjury, I would admit that I dream often of Mary Magdalene. If you are not aware of her depiction by the Venetian artist Domenico Tintoretto, I implore you to seek it. I have been drawn unmistakably to her since my teenage years in a manner entirely inappropriate. In my heart and my mind, I know her to be fictional. I understand that her fictionality, should it be disproved, could prove a rather despicable linchpin for the ultimate collapse of my mind. Yet The Madeleine beckons me.

I find, some days, that my school girl fascination has evolved into pure adoration. Into love. The idea saturates my very soul in terror.

Yet, despite all these sins of mine, I pray to Saint Christopher during storms... And I ask Mary Magdalene for her protection against what lurks beneath the disguise of thunder.