Requested! ENTP + Slytherin + Cancer + Daughter Of Aphrodite (plus Fall Out Boy)

If you genuinely enjoy being alone, do you ever wonder if it is an inherent part of your character or if it stems from feeling inescapably lonely in the first place until you taught yourself to enjoy the peace and happiness one can find in solitude? what if the reason you now prefer & choose solitude at every turn is because you were a very lonely child, or teenager, not by your own choice, and that’s how you learnt to thrive and grow, so you no longer know if you can do that around people? There might also be an element of personal pride, an unconscious “you can’t fire me I quit” point when your brain decided to switch your feelings about solitude from distress to relief. I often find myself defending my love of being alone, to people who worry that I can’t possibly be happy to live in an isolated house in the woods; I insist that I do! I really do specifically enjoy the isolated factor and chose to live here because of it, but then I wonder how to differentiate an ingrained love of solitude from an acquired ability to thrive off unchosen loneliness, to learn from it and be nourished by it; to what extent it might be a form of contentment built on a bedrock of resignation.

The world burned while Atlas watched (no, that isn’t right) Atlas died screaming, trying to save those he’d watched over Aphrodite is about romantic love (no, that isn’t right) Love comes in many forms but it always leaves a mark - Aphrodite Artemis fell in love once (no, that isn’t right) Artemis loved the maidens she raised, the trees, she loved all who tried Peresphone was manipulated by the King of Underworld (no, that isn’t right) Peresphone chose power, chose love, chose freedom, she chose Achilles was golden (No, that isn’t right) Achilles was rusted, bruised and bloody. He was in love

The Myths Are Wrong by Abby S (via fireandsteelofangels)

Time passes you by...

Slowly and all at once as vivid as the shining amber lights on the wet concrete at night.

Walking on that burnt orange stone, home, home.

I look to the past and it's forgotten.

I'm standing outside in the driving rain, it ushers me away.

Pressed up to the window panes, fogging up sodden glass.

Looking at a stranger's past.

That little room with its sandy paint and coffee curtains.

Lights snapped on and Nora Jones sings out of the stereo.

It's soft and milky.

Clouding and brewing softly.

Time.

Past is present and present is future.

And it's all already passed me by.

I flip through shining photos and those familiar faces smile at the ghosts behind the long, lost cameras.

Choppy hair and sharply slit winds softened by a flash decades ago.

Moments so dear, a sun so golden, people lost to ticking clocks, they forgot long ago.

And they kept it all down.

Those shining cards with their little people.

The faces you see in the warm ripples of a bath.

No malice, just ghosts.

Ghosts of happy days and burnt orange stones.

Do you remember their names?

Did they ever learn mine?

I walk and I know I'm already gone.

Just a face in a photo.

I stand faded in smooth cards on Christmases and birthday nights in orange lights.

Smiling and laughing.

Running on tiles, on wood, on carpet, sand and stone.

I stand young and small.

I doubt I could even tell you why these photos exist now.

But they did.

Those people breathed that long lost air and time thawed once the flash faded.

We carry on.

Until the next photo's taken

Aubrey Plaza Explores ASMR with W Magazine

FIVE CHEESE ZITI AL FORNO

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Is this how you roll?

“so maybe this bridge was always meant to burn / maybe we were handing the matches back and forth back and forth / waiting for someone to strike out / waiting for someone to say / okay this is enough / I need to see some light / I need to see some flames / let’s set this ablaze and not call the police / let’s close our eyes and run opposite ways / I think I need to get away from you for awhile / I think I need to make sure I can never come home to you again.”

— where did the fire go / it never kept us warm– lily rain

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us.

James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time (via merulae)

“There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.”

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Oscar Wilde