2017 mood vs 2018 mood
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2017 mood vs 2018 mood

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(ďžâăŽâ)ďž*:シďžâ§
Wtf is that? A storm elemental?
Ball lightning fuck me all the way up
Excuse me what the fuck is this
you literally captured whats called âball lightningâ which is the rarest form of lighting
its so rare that we dont even know how it forms other than by heat, static electricity, and humidity
lightning is stored in the balls
nostalgia
nostalgia isÂ
remembering everything that never happened
and desperately aching for them.
(i wonder
if i am nostalgic
for you,
for what could have been)

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Memories of Rome (I)
MYTHOLOGY AROUND THE WORLD â siblings
Midnight in Paris (Woody Allen, 2011): Parisâ exteriors
AESTHETIC MEME: [1/5] myths or mythical creatures: hades and persephone
âArenât you afraid of my darkness, my dear?â Hades asked with mischief in his eyes. âNo,â Persephone replied, âyou havenât even seen mine yet.â - kfg

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the woman of a thousand poems
I saw a woman with a dress the color of sunshine and happiness.Â
Her hair was fire and gold, the color of mountains in the fall when leaves turn a magnificent red. Her smile was the brightness of the full moon in a dark sky, bright and shining. Her laughter was the sound of symphonies and wind chimes, the music of birds in the early hours of the morning. She was Helen of Troy, the goddess Aphrodite, and she had a face that could end all wars or start a thousand battles.Â
She looked around the cafĂŠ and I saw her eyes: they were sapphires, the color of the ocean at its most carefree and vibrant, jewels stolen from the crowns of kings. She was an animated watercolor painting, a ballerina and a gypsy, the queen of fairies and a perfect rose.Â
The people around her were enchanted, and that Saturday morning in that cafĂŠ, I saw the woman with the touch of Midas, the woman who turned everything to gold with her presence alone.
The woman of a thousand poems looked me in the eye, radiant and glorious, and in those jewel-hue eyes I saw heartbreak and tragedy and ashes, ashes, and she was so beautiful and fierce I burned.
ascend. - part 1
You are seven years old when they come for you.
Your father prepares the carriage and your mother wraps you in thick furs from head to toe, carefully brushing your hair and coiling them in thick ropes around and around your head. The world is dead and dying, and the stars loom in the velvet skies, unnervingly bright as you steal glances out the carriage window.
Your mother reaches across you and pulls the curtains shut.
You arrive at a stately mansion carved of glistening pale stone, grand and somber in the dead of night like a weary sentinel waiting for something that never comes, merely skirting the edges of its consciousness. The house is beautiful, a work of art, but you look up at the intricate carvings on the ceilings as you pass the threshold and feel a keen sense of lonely agony seeping into your very essence.
The strangers in - gray, blue, white? the light is too dim to tell - usher you into an ornate ballroom of sorts, cleared of everything except for five other children. You meet oneâs eyes, a cloudy green, and he looks down.
Your mother positions you next to a little girl with tight ebony curls and a crooked nose before withdrawing to the edges of the room with the rest of the adults. There is an implied warning to remain still, to stay where you are, so you pass the time counting the paintings on the ceilings and idly studying the mirrors on the walls.
Theyâre massive things, these mirrors, and their reflections expand the room to something infinite and horribly complex, spiraling outwards into eternity in a rigid pattern you canât determine. In one of the mirrors you meet another boyâs eyes, this time small and blue, and in that one breath you exchange commiserating looks. Then one of the robed strangers shifts, and the connection is broken.
Eventually another girl is ushered into the room and placed next to you. Sheâs taller than all the other children, including yourself, but thereâs something terribly young in the openness of her face, the roundness clinging to her cheeks, the hundred expressions that flicker over her face. Sheâs a pretty thing, inky-dark skin like silk and large eyes the color of the harvest moon, but her fingers are ragged and scabbed from what appears to be a nervous habit.
You want to comfort her, though you donât know whatâs happening either, but her arrival seems to herald a new chapter in this baffling story, as the strangers close the heavy wooden doors and move with renewed purpose.
None of the children move, but a palpable sense of unease rises like a choking fog as the strangers draw closer in tighter and tighter circles. They take you, remove your coat, and one of them places a long, cool hand over your eyes. Before your vision is overcome by sweet-smelling darkness, you see that six other robed individuals are doing the same to the other children.
Then there is no time to think, because there is a fire behind your eyes, a door opened where there should be none, pillars of wrath and sorrow and pure, unfettered joy spilling into the cracks and splitting you into halves over and over again, poison and antidote coursing through your blood like knives, claws raking down glass and wild, wild, m o v e m e n t -Â
You come to yourself abruptly, gasping and trembling, pupils blown wide as you look at yourself in the mirror directly across the room. There are flecks of the universe yawning in your eyes, dustings of history and miracles scattered over your skin, and when your gaze slides to the side, it is greeted with six charred bodies with black pits where there were eyes, lips dried up and skin cracked like porcelain shattered and painstakingly glued together, only it doesnât work, because whatâs broken cannot be mended.
In a glorious ballroom of mirrors and weeping women splashed across the ceilings, you stand in the epicenter of a desert storm, six small corpses heralding your rise to divinity even as everyone kneels before you in reverence.
There is a gaping chasm in your mind, a divide, yours and not yours, you you you but not, and itâs like stepping into a sea of fire and coming home at the same time.
You approach a mirror, press your small hands against the pristine surface, and something not quite you gazes back.
This is divinity.
quiet powers
i think
there is
a quiet power
in resting your headÂ
on someoneâs shoulder
and knowing
that youÂ
are alwaysÂ
welcome.
Source.

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Later that night I held an atlas in my lap ran my fingers across the whole world and whispered where does it hurt? it answered everywhere everywhere everywhere.
Warsan Shire (via we-the-dreamers)