קדוש.

stanley. he/they. xxii

[martyrcore]

how nice it is sometimes to find an immensely old hyperfixation somewhere in the depths of memory, blow the dust off this ancient artifact and discover that this thing is still moving and capable of squeezing out serotonin out of your brain

[martyrcore]

“in the first episode there was a moment when the main character’s arm and leg were torn off... I was eleven, it was shocking”

“now you would like something like this though”

“…”

“especially if someone started eating those arm and leg”

[martyrcore]

your eyes to the ground and the world spinning round forever

[martyrcore]

i’m watching movies (once even on the last row of a small cinema) and anime (a favorite one from my childhood, hayao miyazaki), reading plays (ancient greek, in ann carson’s translation), comics (the collection of most issues of dtwof) and excerpts from scientific papers (on literary theory), listening to a podcast (lovecraftean horrors that are in the spirit, in fact, a soap opera) and lectures (from one specific university).

important locations: a turkish restaurant in the city center (birthday celebration, the most pleasant of conversations, pide with mozzarella), botanical gardens (sunset walk, tangerine tree in the window, beer with lime and mint), a bench next to st. lambert's church (organ music, soft twilight light, sticky bookmarks in shades of blue)

[martyrcore]

going to therapy? no, thanks, i would rather have a coffee outside, climb ancient ruins under the scorching sun, seek out a statue of my favorite mythological hero in a museum and find a crab among the rocks on the seashore

[martyrcore]

you love the sea because you like swimming; i love the sea because i like to imagine that i am a professor who went on a naval expedition and ended up on the ship of a lonely mysterious captain who knows the answers to all secrets of the universe and helps to organize revolutions across the globe. we’re different

[martyrcore]

don't worry: on the ruins of our civilization, ants will also pave paths for their colonies, and turtles will also eat grass sprouting from rocks, and even a ginger cat will take a nap in the shade of a tombstone just the way it is doing it right now

[martyrcore]

more pictures from the past few weeks!

[martyrcore]

end of august/beginning of september aesthetic:

alarms before the sunrise, cycling along the fields, hand-rolled cigarettes, music in denglisch, drizzling rain, drawing eyes and teeth on university papers, chocolate cereal with milk, taking out letters out of the mailbox, sounds of violin from an open window

[martyrcore]

while someone is realizing that their life is not a tragedy, but a comedy, i’m starting to realize that i’m not in a fun college & coffee shop au, but in a fic tagged with the evils of capitalism, Immigration & Emigration, casual references to mass genocide and communist propaganda. there are also Reincarnation, Aliens and Hybrids in the tags, which are not featured in my life yet, but, as one might say, the night is still young

[martyrcore]

after i turn 25 i want to pass all of the stages of getting older and become a gray-haired professor right away

[martyrcore]

“When I had read the books I’d checked out over the years from the library, I used to think—like the stories I encountered—that my father had been born from the minds of writers. I believed the Great Creator had flown these writers on the backs of thunderbirds to the moon and told them to write me a father. Writers like Mary Shelley, who wrote my father to have a gothic understanding of the tenderness of all monsters. It was Agatha Christie who created the mystery within my father and Edgar Allan Poe who gave darkness to him in ways that lifted him to the flight of the raven. William Shakespeare wrote my father a Romeo heart at the same time Susan Fenimore Cooper composed him to have sympathy toward nature and a longing for paradise to be regained. Emily Dickinson shared her poet self so my father would know the most sacred text of mankind is in the way we do and do not rhyme, leaving John Steinbeck to gift my father a compass in his mind so he would always appreciate he was east of Eden and a little south of heaven. Not to be left out, Sophia Alice Callahan made sure there was a part of my father that would always remain a child of the forest, while Louisa May Alcott penned the loyalty and hope within his soul. It was Theodore Dreiser who was left the task of writing my father the destiny of being an American tragedy only after Shirley Jackson prepared my father for the horrors of that very thing.”

— Betty by Tiffany McDaniel

[martyrcore]

sometimes next to our university one can notice a very unique cryptid. look out for the main features: big mossy green headphones, a cup of latte (oftentimes smelling like baileys irish cream), can at any given moment start talking about cannibalism while swinging a cigarette around. careful, don’t come near! this creature bites and is highly venomous

[martyrcore]

just saw a young pastor rushing past me right now: in one hand he had a cup of coffee, in the other he had his phone which he was using to record an audiomessage. grind culture is everywhere

[martyrcore]

life without at least two (2) cups of coffee a day is meaningless and merciless

[martyrcore]

my pre-exams and pre-thesis-defense moodboard

[martyrcore]

what saved me from my allergies this year: a town with no birches. because the germans didn’t plant birches, they planted chestnuts