#life always finds away

[satansmythicalnobjocky]

My spouse just found out about the Destiel meme through Misha Collins promoting Kamala Harris on TikTok on the night of the election and the anniversary of the destiel confession

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Vine_Boom.mp3

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[valeriianz]

Hiii @embroiderling here. For the way you said I love you, can I ask for 31? Or 27. Or 25 😂 all the options are so good 💖

Thank youuuu

Helloooo! So nice to see you after so long! haha 31: In awe, the first time you realised it also, reincarnation au :D

---------------

“I love you.”

The stranger looks twice at Hob, a beautiful expression of bafflement making his eyes pop.

Hob blinks, the words coming back to him.

“Sorry,” Hob laughs, breathless. He feels a flush growing up his neck. “That just– came out of me. I don’t– here–” Hob scrambles to get his feet flat on the ground and heft himself up halfway, extending a hand to the man he’d crashed into… who looks achingly familiar.

The man, who Hob takes in properly now, hesitantly takes Hob’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled up from the ground, standing now on unsteady legs. They carefully walk out of the bike lane and onto the slightly congested sidewalk. Hob realizes he doesn’t have his scooter until his hand shoots out to catch the thin, gorgeous man, by the elbow as he wobbles a bit.

“Careful.” Hob offers a smile but it feels broken. “You okay?”

The man looks up from the point where they are touching, back to Hob, absolute shock and something like recognition glinting in his eyes.

Hob’s breath catches when he sees that the man is crying. Beautiful blue eyes shine and overflow down pale skin and strikingly sharp cheekbones.

“What’s wrong?” Hob’s grip tightens slightly on the man’s arm while the other hovers between them.

“I don’t know…” The man finally speaks with a voice that sounds like heaven. His fingers shake as he wipes away the tears on his face. “I just feel like…”

His low vibrato cracks as he looks back at Hob.

“Feels like I’ve been waiting an eternity to hear you say that.”

Hob’s jaw drops and his heart soars.

“What’s your name?”

“Dream.”

Hob huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

“It’s– It’s so crazy. I knew that.” Hob laughs properly now at the smile that tugs up the corner of Dream’s lips. “Do you know me? What’s my name?”

Dream’s brows pinch together as he seems to study Hob.

“... Hob.”

The smile that cracks through Dream’s composure is enough to send pin pricks up Hob’s spine, tickling the back of his neck, not to mention how incredibly strange and yet familiar this all seems. Like he’d looked at those crystal blue eyes a hundred times, in a hundred different lifetimes, a hundred different emotions reflected in them.

Then Dream laughs. A bark of laughter that he immediately covers with his hand and finally, for the first time since Hob spoke to him, looking away, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“What’s so funny?” Hob’s smiling so wide he feels his eyes squint.

“I don’t know!” Dream nearly screeches, his visage morphing through something like the five stages of grief before smiling again.

“But…” Dream manages to get himself under control, looking around at the people walking past them, the buildings towering over them, and back to Hob. “It’s a very strange name.”

It feels like an excuse, or some explanation that at least makes sense.

“I love your laugh,” Hob blurts out, feeling more present, all the sudden.

Dream sighs, his body relaxing, like he’s committed to whatever is happening… acquiescing to it. 

“I know you do.”

Hob grins. This is insane.

“Can I take you to dinner?”

Dream’s breath seems to catch, his eyes flicking up and down.

“I feel like you owe me a lot more than dinner.”

Hob laughs again, emotion welling on inside his throat and making his own eyes begin to burn.

“I’m going to make it up to you. God. What is happening right now?”

Dream merely shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and looking around them.

“Are you free tonight? Eight o’clock?”

Hob nods, excitement– like a child, rushes through his veins.

“Let’s meet here,” Dream points to the ground. “... again, if you’re serious.”

Hob nods again. “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” Dream takes a long breath, his eyes seem to burn, instantly watching Hob. “I will see you again.”

An unconscious grin splits across Hob’s face.

“You will.”

[gingermintpepper]

As usual I read your tags always and so you said Apollo did not ask for resurrection of Asclepius and Hyacinthus so i just wanted to share this. About Asclepius death I read it on theoi.com, that earlier authors don't make him resurrect as a god but that's a later development mentioned only by Roman authors like Cicero, Hyginus and Ovid. But still Apollo has a role in Ovid's version

Ovid, Fasti 6. 735 ff (trans.Boyle) (Roman poetry C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) : Clymenus [Haides] and Clotho resent the threads of life respun and death's royal rights diminished. Jove [Zeus] feared the precedent and aimed his thunderbolt at the man who employed excessive art. Phoebus [Apollon], you whined. He is a god; smile at your father, who, for your sake, undoes his prohibitions [i.e. when he obtains immortality for Asklepios].

So here it is actually because of Apollo the decision was taken to resurrect him as god. And with Hyacinthus, I don't think I've read about Artemis playing the primary role. I know in Sparta there was a picture of Artemis, Athena and Aphrodite carrying Hyacinthus and his sister to heaven.

This is not on theoi.com but I saw on Tumblr it's from Dionysiaca by Nonnus

Second, my lord Oiagros wove a winding lay, as the father of Orpheus who has the Muse his boon companion. Only a couple of verses he sang, a ditty of Phoibos, clearspoken in few words after some Amyclaian style: Apollo brought to life again his longhaired Hyacinthos: Staphylos will be made to live for aye by Dionysos.

So since he is singing inspired by amyclean stories it probably means in that place it was believed Apollo was the one to bring back his lover to life.

Apollo as god of order was very important so i think it shows how special these people (and admetus too) were to him that he decided to go against the order for them 🥺

ANON!! Shakes you like a bottle of ramune!! BELOVED ANON!!!!! I'm littering your face with kisses, I'm anointing you with olive oil and honey - you absolutely made my night with this because, not only did I get the pure serotonin shot of having someone interact with my tags (yippee, wahoo!!) I also got to have that wonderful feeling of "oh wow, have I misunderstood something that was integral to my understanding of this myth/figure this whole time or is this a case of interpretational differences?" which is imo vital for my aims and interests as someone who enjoys mythological content and literature.

I'll preface my response with this: Hyacinthus is by far the hardest of these to get accounts for because his revival itself, as you very astutely point out, is generally accounted for in painting/ritual format which muddies the waters on who interceded for what. I wasn't actually familiar with that passage from the Argonautica - and certainly didn't remember it so thank you very much for bringing it to my attention!

That said, what I've come to understand, both about Hyacinthus and about Asclepius is that in the accounts of their deaths, Apollo's position is startlingly clear.

For Hyacinthus, it is established time and again that Apollo would have sacrificed everything for him - his status, his power, his very own immortality and divinity. Ovid writes that Apollo would have installed him as a god if only he had the time:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses. Book X. trans. Johnston)

Many other writers too speak of how Apollo abandoned his lyre and his seat at Delphi to spend his days with Hyacinthus, but they also all agree that when it came to his death - he was powerless. Ovid gives that graphic account of Apollo's desperation as he tries all his healing arts to save him to no avail:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book X. Apollo me boy, methinks him dead. trans Johnston)

Bion, in one of his fragments, writes that Apollo was "dumb" upon seeing Hyacinthus' agony:

(Bion, The Bucolic Poets. Fragment XI. trans Edmonds)

Even Nonnus in the Dionysiaca speaks constantly of Apollo's helplessness in the face of Hyacinthus' fate where he writes that the god still shivers if a westward wind blows upon an iris:

and when Zephyros breathed through the flowery garden, Apollo turned a quick eye upon his young darling, his yearning never satisfied; if he saw the plant beaten by the breezes, he remembered the quoit, and trembled for fear the wind, so jealous once about the boy, might hate him even in a leaf...

(Nonnus, Dionysiaca, Book 3. trans Rouse)

And the point here is just that - Apollo, at least as far as I've read, cannot avert someone's death. He simply can't. Once they're already dead - once Fate has cut their string - all Apollo's power is gone and he can do nothing no matter how much he wants to. And this is, as far as I know, supported with the accounts of Asclepius as well!

Since you specifically brought up Ovid's account, I'll also stick only to Ovid's account but in Metamorphoses when we get Ovid's version of Coronis' demise, he writes that Apollo intensely and immediately regrets slaughtering Coronis. He regrets it so intensely that he, like he does with Hyacinthus, does his best to resuscitate her:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo's regret)

And like Hyacinthus, when it becomes clear that what has happened cannot be undone, Apollo wails:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo wept.)

Unlike his mother, Asclepius in her womb had not yet died and so, with the last of Apollo's strength, he does manage, at least, to save him.

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo puts the 'tearing out' in Asclepius.)

But it goes further than even that because Ocyrhoe, Chiron's daughter, a prophetess who unduly gained the ability to directly proclaim the secrets of the Fates, upon seeing the baby Asclepius, immediately prophesies his glory, his inevitable death and then his fated ascension:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses, Book Two. Ocyrhoe's prophecy. trans Johnston)

Before she too succumbs to her hubris and is transformed by the Fates into a horse so she can no longer speak secrets that aren't hers to share.

These things ultimately are important because it establishes two very important things: 1) Apollo can't do anything in the face of the ultimate Fate of mortals, which is, of course, death and 2) even when Apollo is Actively Devastated, regretful, yearning, mournful, guilty or some unholy combination of all of the above, when someone is dead, he accepts that they are gone. Even if he is devastated by it, even if he'll cry all the rest of his days about it - if they're dead? Apollo lets them go. In Fasti, when Zeus brings Asclepius back, he does not say Apollo asked him to - Zeus, or well, in this case Jove, brings Asclepius back because he wants Apollo to stop being mad at him.

(Ovid, Fasti VI. Apollo please come home your father misses you. trans. A.S Kline)

Even Boyle's translation which you used above in your findings hints that Zeus made Asclepius a god because he wanted Apollo to stop grieving. (i.e 'smile at your father', 'for your sake [he] undoes his prohibitions')

And like, Apollo was deeply upset by Asclepius' death - apart from killing the Cyclops in anger, in book 4 of the Argonautica, Apollonius writes that the Celts believe the stream of Eridanus to be the tears Apollo shed over the death of Asclepius when he left for Hyperborea after being chastised by Zeus for killing his Cyclops:

But the Celts have attached this story to them, that these are the tears of Leto's son, Apollo, that are borne along by the eddies, the countless tears that he shed aforetime when he came to the sacred race of the Hyperboreans and left shining heaven at the chiding of his father, being in wrath concerning his son whom divine Coronis bare in bright Lacereia at the mouth of Amyrus.

It all paints a very clear picture to me. Apollo did not ask for either of them to be brought back. Though bringing them back certainly pleased and delighted him, they are actions of other gods who are moved by Apollo's grief and mourning and seek to mollify him. Him not asking doesn't mean he didn't want them back which I think is a very important distinction by the by, but it simply means that Apollo knows the natural order of things and, even if it hurts, he isn't going to press his luck about it.

Which, of course, brings us to Admetus. And I'm really not going to overcomplicate this, Admetus is different because, very vitally, Admetus is not dead. Apollo can't do a thing once Fate has been carried out and Death has claimed a mortal but you know what he absolutely can do? Bargain like hell with the Fates before that point of inevitability. And that's what he does, ultimately for Admetus and Alcestis. He sought to prolong Admetus' life, not revive him from death or absolve him from death altogether and even after getting the Fates drunk, he's still only able to organise a sacrifice - a life for a life - something completely contingent on whether some other mortal would be willing to die in Admetus' place and not at all controllable by Apollo's own power.

All of these things, I think come back to that point you made - that Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore these people are very special to him if it means he's willing to go against that order but, I also wish to challenge that opinion if you'd let me. Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore, I would argue, that it is even more important that it is shown that he does not break the divine order, especially for the people that mean the most to him. The original context of my comments which started this conversation were on this lovely, lovely post by @hyacinthusmemorial which contemplated upon Asclepius from the perspective of an Emergency Medical personnel and included, in their tags, the very poignant lines "there's something about Apollo letting go when Asclepius couldn't that eats my heart away" and "you do what you can, you do your best, but you don't ever reach too far" and I think that's perfectly embodied with the Apollo-Asclepius dichotomy. Apollo grieves. He wails, he cries, he does his best each and every time to save that which is precious to him but he does not curse their nature, he does not resent that they are human and ultimately, he accepts that that which is mortal must inevitably die. There is nothing that so saliently proves that those who uphold rules are also their most staunch followers - if Apollo wants to delight in his place as Fate's mouthpiece, he cannot undo Fate. And, if even the god of healing and order himself cannot undo death, what right does Asclepius, mortal as he is, talented as he is, have to disrespect it?

The beauty of these stories isn't that Apollo loved them enough to bring them back. The beauty is that Apollo loved them enough to let them go.

[crazy-fangirl2524]

Andrew’s “bottomless rage” and Jean’s “old and ugly rage” are the same in this essay I will -

[askblueandviolet]

With his kiss, can you count it as a love now?

[crayoncat-works]

lazy mornings

[foxx-queen]

thinking about the way shadowheart, lae'zel and minthara deal with breaking away from a god/god-like figure they've dedicated their lives to. shadowheart immediately latches onto rescuing her parents as her new 'mission'. lae'zel immediately dedicates herself to freeing orpheus with the vigor she served vlaakith. minthara fixates on obtaining the power to make sure she's never controlled again.

its like. breaking away from gods/god-like figures leaves a void to fill. they're trying to fill it, and trying to choose what they fill it with. and they know that's what they're doing, in some ways, maybe to avoid the enormity of what it means to have broken away. maybe to avoid working out what they'll do as individuals. shadowheart doesnt know her parents, and they dont know her anymore, but she has to save them. you can ask lae'zel why she won't focus on herself, and she acknowledges there's no time for that. not yet. minthara wants you to use the power of the brain, but has dialogue/approval when you speak to ravenguard and she realizes hes still in there beneath the tadpoles influence, just like she was.

'my deference to him is a habit that will die hard, i fear'. minthara still calls the elder brain the absolute, even after she knows the truth. lae'zel still calls out to vlaakith in battle. shadowheart still wears the symbol of shar in her hair after dyeing it. indoctrination/ingrained beliefs are hard to break.

they've broken away from what was controlling their lives. they're free. they've lost everything. shadowheart can save her parents and but will always have that mark. lae'zel has been declared a traitor and will be hunted until vlaakith is overthrown. minthara can never go home, and would be executed if she tried.

they've broken away. they've lost everything. they're struggling with what that means. they're free. they wouldn't have it any other way.

[cherikdogfood]

Continued in the reblog

[satorugojoswiife]

don't think or talk about gojo for one (1) day challenge (FAILED)

[lichilly]

“I had all and then most of you

Some and now none of you.

Take me back to the night we met.”

— The Night We Met by Lord Huron

cw implied death, angst, OWWW OWWWIE OWWW

The day starts as usual.

The sun rises, birds chirping as you push open the balcony door to let the morning air in. Joseph steps out, a cigarette already between his fingers. You join him, two mugs of coffee in your hands. He takes one from you with a grateful smile, you both settle into the routine.

The day is beautiful. The suns warm embrace on your skin makes you want to linger there forever, soaking in her rays.

“What d’ya want for breakfast?” he asks, smoke curling lazily from his lips.

You ponder for a moment, imagining the taste of different dishes. “How about…pancakes?” you suggest, feeling your mouth water at the thought.

Joseph chuckles, stubbing out his cigarette and taking a final gulp of his coffee. “Pancakes it is then.”

You eat breakfast together at the table. Joseph flips through his script between bites, humming under his breath and glancing at the clock occasionally. A quiet sigh escapes him as he polishes off his plate.

He rises, placing his dirtied plate on the sink, setting his empty mug on top. He walks over to you, gently pushing your hair back and kissing your forehead.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you later, okay?”

You hum, cheeks warming from the kiss. “I’ll pick up stuff to make your favorite for dinner tonight. I know we haven’t had it in a while.”

His eyes light up, “Sounds like a plan.”

He heads towards the entryway, grabbing his jacket. He looks back at you, a smile still lingering on his lips.

“Don’t worry, filming shouldn’t take long today. I’ll be home before you know it.”

The butterflies in your stomach flutter with his words.

“Okay, I’ll see you later,” you reply, eyes droopy with morning grogginess and love.

The door clicks shut behind him, you watch a moment longer. Your eyes trace over the knob, down the mysterious crack in the wood, and watch his shadowy steps fade away. A sudden uneasiness creeps in, filling your gut with a syrupy ache. The butterflies no longer flutter, their wings cut, leaving you with a heavy feeling in their place.

You try to shake it off, but the feeling lingers, the knot in your stomach tightening with each tick of the clock. Hour after hour, minute after minute, you try to distract yourself with meaningless chores. You go grab things for dinner, the hustle and bustle of the store creating a dull hum over the pit in your stomach. A weak balm that doesn’t last the second you step through the apartment door again.

Night falls, groceries left forgotten on the counter. Seconds tick by painfully slow, each one a reminder of his absence. You can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.

Joseph doesn’t return that night, or any night after that.

[flowerprintundies]

basically the plot right?

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

Resistance fighter [name unknown], ily

[stillprettyunoriginal]

Names are so vital. So important and held to who a person is and gods Claude who has known Jericho through being far closer to Simon than himself now; through Jericho and the taking of his FACE through having to take in the mind of bloody fucking Martin. If names bring power, what sort of humanity does it draw out of a person when they’ve seen you try on a good couple. Maybe I’m just in my own head about this but truly, there are versions and layers of learning and change to the Jericho we know now, and after a certain point? If we move past his childhood? Claude has been there for nearly all of them besides the tubs. When he lost Kassie there was someone else and this one hasn’t LEFT through his learning and hasn’t died through him stumbling into the world and overall at his side. He has truly been one of the people closest to him. One of the closest you could get, at the very least, when you wear the face of a tormentor and feel your gut twisted by their own memories of their hatred of you or how you her them, and you can’t remember a world without that hurt. I’m never going to heal from these two I swear it.

(also the taking of Martin’s face is destructive to my mental health rip someone please save me it ruins me every time I remember it, n WONDER he had brother issues dude)

[heatherchasesyou]

guys I might be discovering something lately--