What doesn’t kill you makes you into something you can’t ever recognize.
RMH
Misplaced Lens Cap
trying on a metaphor

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@eveschild
What doesn’t kill you makes you into something you can’t ever recognize.

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Not now kitten, daddy is at her social limit.
This.
I feel like people might consciously or subconsciously see themselves as commodities in this godforsaken century. Most people I talk to seem like they’re trying to fit into a certain “aesthetic” like why are all your interests just caterers to the latest trends?
Give me real interests, give me real passion over music, artists, writers you love because they unlock a certain memory or feeling, give me raw passion over things that genuinely stimulate you mentally or physically.
Some guys really be out there putting the “men” in “mentally ill”

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You know the point where you get the ick from that one guy, and you’re like “finally oh my god” and you’re just gagged about why did you even like this person in the first place.
eating pastries is so humiliating cause you'll be having the time of your life having it and then when you're finished you look down and you're covered in flakes and sugardust like fuuuck now everyone is going to know i'm a messy pastry whore
u wanna be happy? u gotta let shit go & let shit be what it is
“I have so much to say to you, but I’ll let you live”
Achilles: Live fast, die young, and leave a pretty corpse. That's what I always say. Patroclus: Say something else.
getting that august feeling (things that have ended endlessly are ending again)

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on tragedy, fate, and inevitability.
oresteia, robert icke // theatre of the oppressed, augusto boal // song of achilles, madeline miller // the book thief, markus zusak // antigone, jean anouilh // revisiting mockingjay ahead of the hunger games prequel, entertainment weekly // romeo and juliet, shakespeare // h of h playbook, anne carson // war of the foxes, richard siken // the road to hell (reprise), hadestown // planet of love, richard siken // they both die at the end, adam silvera
anecdote of the pig, tory adkisson // achilles & partoclus // house of dragon, 1x07 // plainwater, anne carson // the truth about forever, sarah dessen // lighthousekeeping, jeanette winterson
“He is half of my soul, as the poets say”
For Patroclus was the humane half,
The half that carried life,
and the beauty of doom.
Without him,
Achilles was nothing more than a weapon,
a barren shell of a man
and a maddening descent.
“This and this and this”
Patroclus was the air in his lungs,
the gold of his hair and the green of his eyes,
the blood that kept his heart alive
All of his soul that implied mortality
Knocked out of him,
with Patroclus’ death.
That was the moment Achilles died,
No arrow could come close
to the damage come undone by Patroclus’ end,
No death could come close
to Achilles’ torment
for now, he’s only half of his own soul.
How come I’ve lost
more than I’ve loved?
Seeds of belongings plucked from my hands
before I could even plant them,
like they never belonged to me,
nothing has ever belonged to me.
one must sometimes spare a thought for circe. not the circe found in madeline miller's novel, but the one homer spoke about.
born to a powerful titan in the age of the olympians, a sister to thousands of siblings. yet never important enough to guard helios' cattle, never pretty enough to be married off to a human king of crete. never smart enough to stand beside her father. simply circe. young, unspecial, forgotten circe.
of how she saw kinship form for her siblings, and how strongly they loved. her mother forgotten by her father, simply another nymph, or the man she loved so dearly but who never glanced at her.
the rage that must have filled her veins when glaucus dared to appear before her and beg for a potion to trick a woman into loving him. how she loved him so purely, but was rejected and used. the regret that came when scylla no longer looked like herself, and how even then glaucus did not want her.
never good enough. replacable. easily cast out by her father, banished to an island where she will mother neither sons nor daughters, and constantly be forced to raise the daughters of gods who wanted sons.
will they become her daughters one day? will she go above and beyond to protect them as her own mother did not protect her?
what did she think, i wonder, when her niece appeared before her grasping a sword bearing the blood of her nephew? what could have possibly gone through her head when she saw the insincere look hidden within jason's eyes? i wonder if the gods told her how he scorned medea eventually, the same way glaucus did her.
and then he appears and he is everything she has ever wanted. but day and night he speaks of his wife, even as he lays in the warmth of her arms, in her silken sheets, hidden behind her wooden door held up by the walls of her home.
he sails away and that is that. another chapter. another empty nothingness.
one must spare a thought for the goddess waiting alone on the shores of a forgotten island amidst daughters she did not mother waiting for a destiny she will never find.
This was truly beautiful and so well written.

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My five year plan-
Have a sunlit room with rainbow films on windows where I, or whoever enters, gets to feel the natural warmth, a kitchen full of food for anyone who’s hungry, where we dance around the counter tops singing our favourite songs, a garden filled with trees that bear delicious fruits and lots of wildflowers around the bushes with a little pond, you might find a duck or a frog or a hedgehog if you’re lucky.
A small cottage of a shed in my garden filled with books and a centre table for me to put my coffee and cake. Also, this home where I would prepare every night for my favourite people to come around. We will spill wine on the table cloth and laugh about it because we couldn’t take our minds off of amazing conversations and stuff.
“What are your future plans?”
Getting through the day Jessica. I just need to get through this fkn day.