I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.
//Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath 1982
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I grew up believing that god was over me. That i must be a good little girl, stay righteous, stay quiet, stay away. All in order to be loved and good. I grew up believing that god created all. That he was the mastermind. The puppeteer. I grew up being told I was nothing. In the eyes of god i would never be anything but the scum he created so long ago. Begging on my knees to be worthy of him once again.
I grew up believing. And for a while I struggled. Because religion is strict. God is better than you. And you are nothing.
But soon I realized I have become god. God is my heartbeat. God is the way my body crafted bones out of nothingness. God is the unseen cells in my body that are dying every day yet somehow i never noticed. Gods is my hair, dead and still growing. Every part of me is god.
And I found my religion in the mirror. In the wind and again my heartbeat. I found my religion in books and my worship in poetry. I found that religion is every breath I take because I am fueling a big god machine. With veins and cells and membranes that are all working at a constant rate, doing their part to keep me together and stop me from slipping to mush. I found god in my eyes and the way one will never know the other is there.
I think each and everyone one of us is a tiny living god. And I think that makes me a very deeply religious person.
-indigo.
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Can you draw that snail? You know the one who got out of Grian's power and started to eat Gem's lighthouse?
little guy <3
alternatively: big guy.
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why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?
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for anyone too young to know this: watching The Truman Show is a vastly different experience now, compared to how it was before youtube and social media influencers became normal
before it was like, "what a horrifying thing to do to a human being! to take away their autonomy and privacy, all for the sake of profits! to create fake scenarios for them to react to, just to retain viewership! to ruin their happiness just so some corporate entity could harvest money from their very humanity! how could anyone do something so evil?"
and now it's like, "ah, yeah. this is still deeply fucked up, but it's pretty much what every influencer has been doing to their kids for a decade now. probably bad that we've normalized this experience"
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truly bonkers that this site will flag vaguely nude drawings at the drop of a hat but I can be presented a random women's entire pussy as a recommended post at any given moment from a bot
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pissed off percy is a determined percy. because the second he saw his mom encased in gold and being held captive in the underworld. it was go time. he gained the upper hand on hades in under ten minutes. whooped ares's ass in under three. returned zeus's bolt and told him off like twenty minutes later. and then told kronos to stop being a coward and come find him. no one's fucking do it like our boy.
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the way that one line from the new epilogue in an astarion romance is going to HAUNT me
just. what a profoundly intense thing to confess to someone.
like, just these six months of newfound happiness with you exerts a force on his heart equal and in direct opposition to two centuries of endless torment, the gnawing hunger and exploitation. this flashbulb-bright fraction of his long life holds the same gravity to him as years upon years of darkness and suffering.
in all likelihood, he hasn’t even known his lover for as long as his worst memory lasted, that year sealed away to go mad from starvation and sensory deprivation, yet he still tells them this brief time has been so fundamentally and powerfully important that the weight of even that unimaginable hell is vanishingly small compared to this present he has now and the future ahead of them both.
how am i supposed to act normal about this.
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