#ganymede

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My dear Ganymede. They speak of him as a symbol, a constellation, a prize lifted into the heavens but I see a child standing at the edge of the earth, still smelling of grass and milk and daylight, still belonging to his mother. He is innocence made visible. And worse innocence noticed. No one speaks enough about the moment before the sky opens. No one mourns the seconds when his feet still touched the ground, when his mother could still reach him, when the world was small enough to be safe. They rush past that part, eager for gods and stars, as if divinity excuses the violence of being taken. I think of his mother often. I think of her hands what they were doing when the air tore open above her son. Was she folding cloth? Grinding grain? Calling his name? Did she hear the wings? Did she run? Did she scream until the mountains learned grief? And I think of myself, standing in that place, knowing that no prayer, no scream, no love is strong enough to stop a god who wants.

My last braincell died making this pls hlep

Altes Museum Berlin Misc. 7928

Courtesy: Metropolitan Museum

Ganymede - inspired by this post. (and the actual statue) Styling is a mix of Hittite and Minoan fresco hotties.