— centrality.

The world has turned a fresh green, and blue rain falls again.

[jiji-de-jiji]

Act for kumamoto

© jiji

[antigonick]

CHORUS : I gnaw myself I lose hope. And my mind is burning.

Aiskhylos, Agamemnon (tr. by Anne Carson)

[shinbashira]

loss

The colour of mourning is  and forever will be  black.

Black; like pitfalls, like charcoal,like ink on parchment, a bonding of lives,like inside of his eyelids screwed tight against the threat of night and its silence and its emptiness and its associations, lingering memories etched into the wood spilt from his own hands, oppressive in their persistence— persistence all too his.Persistence challenged him needlessly, frustratingly. Shouts ring from the grains in the timber as though Madara himself was here to release them, adamant in his resistance to Hashirama’s peace.

Regret, bitter as bile, rises in his throat.Regret, not for the act of killing; rather, for the inaction stretched thin until that moment, when the blade pierced his heart— no, that moment, when the admission pierced his lungs— no, that moment, long before—( or that,  or that,  or that,  or  …   )circles uselessly.

He remembers to breathe.In time, he tells himself. In time, he will be of dust.

For now, grief had never felt so dry.

[edhmund]

calm after the storm.

[rpmissionboard]

Put a word in my ask and I will write a headcanon or drabble about it for my muse.

Nightmares

Humanity

Slaughter

Order

Morality

Loyalty

Promise

Betrayal

Epiphany

Apathy

Memories

Loss

Lies

Death

Love

Pawns

Monster

Time

Waiting

Alliance

Natural

Pretence

Impression

Critic

Judgement

Delirious

Instinct

Illusion

End

[hitotsu]

[antigonick]

MEDEA : Tell me, How does it feel with my teeth in your heart?

Euripides, Medea (via henrydear)

[kedidirokedi]

Visit Original Link

Jóhann Jóhannsson -  Fordlândia / Aerial View

more…

[shinbashira]

A thought.

When creation is as easy and natural as the pulse of his heart, practice becomes unnecessary. Creation becomes an idle hobby, a pleasure to partake in private. So here he comes to sit by the riverbank, between the patches of sunlight, underneath the warm rays obscured by the shadows of leaves above. Here he comes to think and to breathe and to create.

Thus, a breath; and he exhales chakra into a trembling sprout that buds from his upturned palm.

To say that it is only a thought which brings life to a fresh bud is untrue. It requires a precision with twining or tugging or tamping that makes the difference between lotus or rafflesia, yew or maple. With mokuton, the finest of details must be accounted for, down to the thickness of a flower’s stem or the pattern of a leaf’s veins. One must visualise perfectly even the grains of wood. The texture of petals. Sharpness of thorns. Shape.  Colour.   Odour.    All.

The sprout grows in size.  A leaf unfurls from its side. He wonders: could he create flora that he has not yet seen— that perhaps does not yet exist?

Light footsteps upon soft earth rouse him from his reverie; at once, he stands, enclosing the fluttering of life among his fingers.

Hashirama turns to greet the approacher. “Hello,—”

[moonmurmur-blog]

He approaches him warily, sunken eyes absorbing his every move. Peace, peace. They are at peace now, and a peace that has lasted long enough for them to build a compound. But still he hesitates, still his shoulders tense the moment he feels the other begin to weave his chakra. There is a fear and a violence in peace that Madara has yet to grow accustomed to, the violence of waiting.

Uchiha Madara does not return the pleasantry. He rarely does. “It will be sundown soon.” The clans are eating together tonight, a large supper suggested by the elders in honor of a moon passing since the ground was broken for the first building. Madara scowls thinking about it, knowing all too well that he will be turning his nose up at some of the Senju specialties. Why a forest clan preferred so much food from the river was beyond his comprehension.

When Hashirama doesn’t immediately respond, the Uchiha stops several feet before him to watch. He crouches to the ground, willing himself to keep calm, to stop the flare of chakra behind his eyes that always struggles to burst forth at the sight of mokuton. The Sharingan is not a gift made for peace, he reflects; outside of sparring, he has been unable to find a way to advance his skills as of late, while the Senju has leapt forward with his own. “What are you creating?” he wants to ask, but he keeps silent.

[shinbashira]

"—Madara." A smile slides easily into place. A disarming smile in the face of Madara's scowl, a soft curve of lips that borders on affectionate, too intimate to be called merely cordial. Hashirama takes care to keep himself at an acceptable distance, knowing that Madara at this early stage in their ceasefire would only respond with recoil.

So, he waits. He does not respond immediately to the other man's statement, and instead waits for him to adjust.   To take the next step forward. When Madara finally moves, crouching to the forest floor, Hashirama takes that as cue to continue.

"You warn me against being late for our communion, yet sit beside me as if stopping to relax?" he teases, a gentle push against their boundaries. He, too, returns to his seat— beside Madara, now— and gently brings his enclosed hands into the space between them.

Hashirama feels, rather than sees, the flash of sharingan ready to manifest. That particular chakra, he is intimately familiar with. Truth be told, it is something that Hashirama had begun to miss in even these few weeks of peace.

A quiet sense  of the anticipation   of being    suffocated.

Every inch of Madara’s being ready to— fight? to flee?—, energy trembling just beneath the surface of his skin, barely-contained, always threatening to burst. Hashirama looks at him and can't help but wonder; What are you waiting for?

Unasked questions receive unanswered replies  in the bare curiosity that burns alongside the chakra behind his eyes. Madara can be surprisingly easy to read.

(The ease with which he understands him startles Hashirama at times. The idea of knowing Madara, attuning to Madara is one that he has yet to grow accustomed to.)

Smile widening, he parts his palms to reveal the sprout, slowly and cautiously— a projected calmness to show that the mokuton he wields now is no threat.

"Honeysuckle."

[arsvitaest-deactivated20260111]

Detail of kimono with flying cranes, Japan, ca. 1910-30 Rijksmuseum

[ngc1705]

the moon said I love you and I was pleased

[flleure]

the leaves are starting to disappear again

[shinbashira]

Use the letters of your muse’s first name to describe their personality. Tagged by: ____

H — positive trait: honourable || negative trait: headstrong ||

A — positive trait: ardent || negative trait: assiduous ||

S — positive trait: strategic  || negative trait: sly ||

H — positive trait: humanist || negative trait: hedonic  ||

I — positive trait: idealistic || negative trait: insincere ||

R — positive trait: risible || negative trait: ribald ||

A — positive trait: amiable || negative trait: authoritative ||

M — positive trait: mellifluous || negative trait: manipulative ||

A — positive trait: astute  || negative trait:  arrogant ||

Tagging: moonmurmur

[shinbashira]

two o'clock becomes three o'clock just as  from the tip of one green leaf  another new leaf shoots out, and today, once again, I have felt my soul racing within me

Takamura Kotaro

[likestolenpoetries]

the fog // the rain

[shinbashira]

a Senju Hashirama roleplay blog,

Independent / Canon-compliant / Selective tracking #shinbashira

— centrality.

[shinbashira]

A thought.

When creation is as easy and natural as the pulse of his heart, practice becomes unnecessary. Creation becomes an idle hobby, a pleasure to partake in private. So here he comes to sit by the riverbank, between the patches of sunlight, underneath the warm rays obscured by the shadows of leaves above. Here he comes to think and to breathe and to create.

Thus, a breath; and he exhales chakra into a trembling sprout that buds from his upturned palm.

To say that it is only a thought which brings life to a fresh bud is untrue. It requires a precision with twining or tugging or tamping that makes the difference between lotus or rafflesia, yew or maple. With mokuton, the finest of details must be accounted for, down to the thickness of a flower's stem or the pattern of a leaf's veins. One must visualise perfectly even the grains of wood. The texture of petals. Sharpness of thorns. Shape.  Colour.   Odour.    All.

The sprout grows in size.  A leaf unfurls from its side. He wonders: could he create flora that he has not yet seen— that perhaps does not yet exist?

Light footsteps upon soft earth rouse him from his reverie; at once, he stands, enclosing the fluttering of life among his fingers.

Hashirama turns to greet the approacher. "Hello,—"