Sourwolf's Pack

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

dead

(she spends 3 months doing the calculations; her birthday is september 22 in earth time. this is what she tells her foster-parents when they ask why she’s holed up in her room, doing complex astrophysics.

krypton was destroyed in february and she mourns silently and alone)

the culture, too. she tries to teach clark kryptonese but he can’t buzz the words correctly in his throat, he can’t twist his tongue around the syllables all the way and he sounds wrong. she tells him the name Rao with reverence and he repeats it with flat incomprehension and she wants to cry and rage because she was supposed to teach him these things. she was supposed to pass krypton on to clark, but she’s twenty years too late.

Not even the sky is the same here on Earth. Everything is too yellow and blindingly bright. Her eyes have grown accustomed to the light, but there is a reason she like sunsets and sunrises the best.

She doesn’t know how to explain the animals that existed on Krypton. Oh, she tries, but there are just no words. None that can describe the breadth of diversity that was Kryptonese flora and the fauna because they’re too different, too alien to truly understand their beauty without experiencing it. 

(”No, it was more like…It’s so…”

“I guess you kinda had to be there, huh?”

“Yeah. I guess.”)

Even the landscapes are beyond description. She tried painting a few a couple times, but the closest she got was only an echo of the real thing. A child’s memory that faded along the edges before her talent could catch up.

And even if she could draw the sharpest image of her planet, it would still be missing the sound and touch of the place. The way the air tasted and the feel of the dirt between her fingers. She doesn’t know how to capture the way the rain trickled down in a storm or how the winds sang against the spires of Argo and Kandor. And then there was the hum. Everywhere on the planet, there was always this slight vibration that she can’t quite describe, like a constant heartbeat thrumming from the ground all the way to her fingertips.

It’s not just the people, but the physical place that Kara misses. The one place that Kara will always belong to without question, where she doesn’t have to fight for the right to exist or justify her place in that world. It was her birthright. Her home.

Krypton.

She says the word as if doing so would breathe life back into it, as if her repeating it is the only way it can stay alive. It only exists now in softened images in her mind, in poisoned fragments of rock that are lethal to touch, and in the broken family links of the House of El.

“but i dont have any money”

“so what do you have to offer”

sorry

like im so so sorry

fox!stiles to fulfill my needs

leonardo da vinci was a year younger than christopher columbus.

stalin, freud, Ttto, trotsky and hitler walk into a bar……no really, it’s possible since they all lived in vienna in 1913.

aristotle tutored alexander the great.

abraham lincoln was twelve when napoleon bonaparte died.

an unusually well-traveled person in 5th century BC could have conceivably met confucius, lao tze, the buddha and socrates over the course of a seventy year life.

pharaohs and mammoths existed at the same time.

pocahontas and william shakespeare died, in the same country, less than a year apart from each other. 

IF people acknowledge it, they play the necessity card– there weren’t any women out on the range, so they had to “resort to men.” this claim completely erases 1) the romantic (not just sexual) writings of actual cowboys, 2) the acknowledgement of cowboys’ potential homosexual activity by writers at the time, and 3) the possibility that some men would deliberately become cowboys with the intent to seek out homosexual encounters.