ephemeral

vivi || '99 || estp  this is a sideblog, main is @sunned

[le-capharnaum]

[cutediosa]

SHOP AT MRBLECLOTHING AND USE MY CODE DIOSA10 FOR 10% OFF ALL ORDERS

[inderacinable]

لا أستطيع أن أكتبَ عن دمشق، دون أن يُعرِّشَ الياسمين على أصابعي. ‏ ولا أستطيع أن أنطقَ اسمها، دون أن يكتظَّ فمي بعصير .المشمش، والرمان، والتوت، والسفرجل - I cannot write about Damascus, without the jasmine climbing on my fingers. I cannot say Her name, without my mouth getting overcrowded with apricot juice, blackberries and quince.

Nizar Qabbani, A Green Lantern on Damascus’ Door (via lesgardenias)

[thewinedarksea]

quetzalcoatl’s name resonates with time, serpent-spun fire flickering up towards the skyline; his skin shades of kaleidoscopic green, his voice a howl as he chases the winds beneath the light of venus. winged serpent that draws the boundary between earth and sky — belongs to both and neither. this world is creation — his fall its destruction.

-eliot c.

collaboration with @archistratego

[dunzayade]

hey im bringing this blog back from the dead but im changing content so pls reblog if u post:

classics/myths (any kind! greek/roman, egyptian, norse, russian, pacific, etc) 

esp stuff on ancient middle eastern writing (arabian nights, rumi, etc)

original writing

poetry

dark academia/gothic genre esp!

stuff on cryptids

the general mythos aesthetic!

&& ill check our ur blog!! a follow would be nice but w/no obligation!

[dunzayade]

his wings are trapped beneath the rough fabric of the work uniform- not by the textile, but by the knowledge that if he unfurled them, he’d be the one spending the next hour stacking bottles of coke back onto their shelves. the halo ‘round his head is both dim as the flickering neon lights outside the gas station, obscured by smoke and exhaust fumes, and dripping with irony as gasoline as the slushy machine to his left drips saccharine blue raspberry. he blinks, languid, and reaches over to straighten out the rows of cigarettes behind him as the door opens to let in a frigid gust of wind. no customers. there truly is a divinity in humanity- he muses, tapping his bitten nails on the grimy counter. what’s left of an angel if no one believes in it?

‘st.michael’ v.v. (via dunzayade)

[dunzayade]

The good die young. Our deaths won’t lead to an afterlife, in heaven, in hell, in the fields of Asphodel. Our death isn’t a corpse buried six feet under, but the dirt in which our souls are laid to rest. Our ashes come not from the honored flame of the pyre, but from the soot streaked ashtray in an underground club, where we used out fake IDs to get in. Eighteen to smoke, twenty-one to drink, youngest to die wins. The good die young. When we put the guns to our head with a laugh and they told us that Russian Roulette wouldn’t be fun without the risk, we were trading shots- bullets and vodka, and we didn’t care which as long as we felt the sting down our throats. And we can feel our breath hitch at the final moment, where we wonder if the dead feel just as cold. We live three lives. The good die young. What’s so interesting in being live when you can die to see another day? We find ourselves not between a rock and a hard place, but between blacking out and la petit mort, deaths in their own rights, and we sway in our daze to lang on a fate like the ball from a cursed Pachinko machine. Falling’s more fun if we don’t know where we’ll end up. The good die young. I’ve seen remains used as poker chips- we take another’s because we have none left ourselves. Her pride, his love, their fortune. (Her bones, his teeth, their flesh.) Everything worth anything we give away in exchange for our rebirth- we do it fast, for our blood loses value the longer its been spilled. Currency is currency, and in our afterlife is nothing if not in circulation in our artificial blue veins. The good die young, and the worst die young a second time.

renaissance, v.v. (via dunzayade)

[inkmagician]

QUESTION: why do we mortals love icarus so?   ANSWER: because he flew, darling. he fell, yes, but first he dared to soar. we are all trying to learn from him.

sunlight & other impossible things | myths reimagined #6 | inkmagician (via inkmagician)

[dunzayade]

his wings are trapped beneath the rough fabric of the work uniform- not by the textile, but by the knowledge that if he unfurled them, he'd be the one spending the next hour stacking bottles of coke back onto their shelves. the halo 'round his head is both dim as the flickering neon lights outside the gas station, obscured by smoke and exhaust fumes, and dripping with irony as gasoline as the slushy machine to his left drips saccharine blue raspberry. he blinks, languid, and reaches over to straighten out the rows of cigarettes behind him as the door opens to let in a frigid gust of wind. no customers. there truly is a divinity in humanity- he muses, tapping his bitten nails on the grimy counter. what's left of an angel if no one believes in it?

‘st.michael’ v.v.

[dunzayade]

The good die young. Our deaths won't lead to an afterlife, in heaven, in hell, in the fields of Asphodel. Our death isn't a corpse buried six feet under, but the dirt in which our souls are laid to rest. Our ashes come not from the honored flame of the pyre, but from the soot streaked ashtray in an underground club, where we used out fake IDs to get in. Eighteen to smoke, twenty-one to drink, youngest to die wins. The good die young. When we put the guns to our head with a laugh and they told us that Russian Roulette wouldn't be fun without the risk, we were trading shots- bullets and vodka, and we didn't care which as long as we felt the sting down our throats. And we can feel our breath hitch at the final moment, where we wonder if the dead feel just as cold. We live three lives. The good die young. What's so interesting in being live when you can die to see another day? We find ourselves not between a rock and a hard place, but between blacking out and la petit mort, deaths in their own rights, and we sway in our daze to lang on a fate like the ball from a cursed Pachinko machine. Falling's more fun if we don't know where we'll end up. The good die young. I've seen remains used as poker chips- we take another's because we have none left ourselves. Her pride, his love, their fortune. (Her bones, his teeth, their flesh.) Everything worth anything we give away in exchange for our rebirth- we do it fast, for our blood loses value the longer its been spilled. Currency is currency, and in our afterlife is nothing if not in circulation in our artificial blue veins. The good die young, and the worst die young a second time.

renaissance, v.v.

[dunzayade]

rnoreau > dunzayade

hey everyone! i’m thinking of bringing this blog back from the dead but i’ll mostly be focusing on classics/myths/my own writing this time around! it would mean a lot if you could spread the word bc ive been MIA for maybe a year now? thank u i love u all ive missed u!

[persrephone-deactivated20171009]

moodboards: Nike

Nike in ancient Greek religion, was a goddess who personified victory, also known as the Winged Goddess of Victory.

[poeticallypashtun]

نه باران، نه ګلونه No rain, no roses.

Pashto landay (via herhoneydress)

[newfavething]

cat snoozing in front of the Acropolis | Areopagus, Athens | June 2017

[bostonpoetryslam]

I like poetry because there are no miracles in it, it is like the dream I had about disease nestled marked curled as a burst blood vessel in the eyeball, that to own up to the mark was to look up inside your skull for others to see it. The poem is doomed and swimming in fluid.

Natalie Eilbert, “The Limits of What We Can Do,” published in The New Yorker (via mythaelogy)

[leaveful]

[nudit]

nudité

[untoxin]

x

[dunzayade]

rnoreau > dunzayade

hey everyone! i’m thinking of bringing this blog back from the dead but i’ll mostly be focusing on classics/myths/my own writing this time around! it would mean a lot if you could spread the word bc ive been MIA for maybe a year now? thank u i love u all ive missed u!

[tsargaze]

They call us a faithless generation, but I am a prophet; I have seen the suburban gods, and I swear by their vice that they have the power to destroy more than simple Troy. We don’t give them names, for names carry power, but their silhouettes remain unmistakable, shadows gathered in a pantheon rising from the very nature and creation of humanity, hitting the ceiling of the monotony and depravity of our desolate hometowns. - i. We no longer worship Zeus, but the girl with charcoal smudges ‘round her eyes, wearing platform heels that leave no room between the gas pedal and the floor of her Camaro. Legend has it, you can find her in an empty parking garage past midnight, where she’ll write your fortune in drips of oil before disappearing with the sound of drifting wheels and a faint smell of gasoline that rekindles the embers in dull eyes. - ii. Our temples are not built for Baldr, but for the boy with bright eyes who keeps his chapped lips on the neck of a bottle - veins buzzing from an absence of miracles - taking them off only to breathe out the smoke from his sister’s exhaust pipe. He tells no fortunes, but if you pick wisely - blue over green over liquid over powder - and smudge the room with the smoke from a roll of crisp twenty dollar bills, he might just sell you three wishes that only make you wish for more. - iii. Tribute is not given to Benzaiten, but to the boy with sharp canines and a pierced tongue and a musician’s hands, one on a gasping Adam’s apple as the other caresses Rubenesque curves, as he breathes in heaven before biting down on forbidden fruit. Unpredictable as he is ephemeral, remember that if he offers you a taste, you’ll owe him for every burst in his effervescent kisses, and remember that one flute of champagne is never enough. - iv. We kneel before altars not for Sekhmet, but for the girl with the bleached blonde hair and blood dripping from her mouth, teeth stained crimson with spit and the volatile violence hidden beneath brass rings, as she leans against the brick back-alley wall. Rumors circulate that if you challenge her and win, she’ll answer any question you need the answer to, so long as you don’t dare ask. - I’ve seen the suburban gods; I’ve spoken to them. Head thrown back looking at the stars they both created and obscured with the flickering town lights, feet hanging out of a shopping cart in an empty parking lot at three in the morning. I’ve driven with them to the outskirts of town and watched as they faded like the buzzing signs from the cheap motel by the hills, as their voices turned transparent until they could no longer sing along with the crackling radio, as they witnessed their own ends like they do every night, only to cycle back in the morning to bring the sun.

v.v. @sunned (via sunned)