Portraits of Simonetta Vespucci by Sandro Botticelli

#daily routine of nctzens

also shoutout to one of the old english spellings of “strawberry,” streawberige

also shoutout to Lakota which spells strawberries like wazu’teca

(wah-zoo-teh-chuh)

→ odd eye circle as comic book covers

All dominant species in the galaxy has something that sets them apart. From healing broken bones and severed flesh, losing 2/8 of our blood, to being infected by literally billions of parasites, Humans have the gift of simply refusing to die. It freaks the heebie-jeebies out of everyone else.

“They are such small, fragile things. In the face of something truly worthy of fear, what are they going to do?”

What a large question for such a little planet. Of course, the answer was obvious: they wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Intergalactic wars had always been fought, those with regenerative powers surviving and those with strength emerging victorious. Some did best running or hiding in the shadows. Each universal war was the same, a mechanical cycle among the stars.

Until a human wrench found itself dancing with massive, time-proclaimed gears.

All could feel the next war boiling up, threatening to spill over into disaster once again; however, one species known for intuition had a feeling.

“There is something off about this war. It isn’t the same as the ones that have come before: no, this is going to affect us on a greater scale than ever before, a scale that we can’t even comprehend, let alone prepare for. Heed my words. Do not fight this war.” The words were wise and well sourced. To the peace council, the answer was obvious. For the rest of the universe, well…

“Cancel the war? What a stupid notion. That council has never done a thing, and now it thinks it can just stop a war by speaking?” The fiery Glanth laughed as it shook its head. “We’ve been disrespected by the Anoric for far too long. It’s past time for us to take what’s rightfully ours!” The bar screamed its approval.

“The war is already won. The Glanth are cowards who choke confronted with conflict. Our hand is utmost: victory is viciously in view. Do not desist in your digilent duties! Fight for freedom! Reach for reputation! Life is limitless.” The Anorics roared in raucous ratification.

The war had begun, and it would not be stopped.

It was in all of this that the little planet was forgotten. Fragile creatures who hadn’t yet reached beyond their moon were of the least concern to anyone.

Wait…

They were only supposed to be on their moon? So why was one spotted among Anoric ranks? Another with the Glanth? Two more seen in the peace council plaza? How had they gotten so far without being seen?

An intergalactic announcement was made, decreeing that any human off of its planet was to be killed on sight. With war on the horizon, humans weren’t a risk anyone was willing to take. Besides, just because they could travel wouldn’t change they fact that they were weak. They’d be gone within the qop.

It had been 3 ½ qops since the last human was found. The war was at its peak. Life went on.

5 qops. The war was over. The Glanth did not win.

Neither did the Anoric.

The victors were from a little planet with a single moon. They had come in at the beginning of the fourth qop from all areas of the universe. They spoke in a tongue indesipherable by the best translators, with a military strategy that by all accounts made no sense. Yet here they were. They had survived persecution at the start of the war, and the war itself. Humans had the lowest casualty rate of any race in the war. They were struck down again and again, losing limbs and blood, but never once losing the fight in their eyes.

That’s when it clicked. When everyone realized. Humans didn’t need to be strong. They didn’t need armor or weapons. Throw them a length of rope and a degrading remark and you’ll find yourself at their mercy within the hour. Humans don’t just die. They fight until they cannot move. They scream until their lungs don’t remember air. They will pick themselves up until their fingers are worn away, bleeding reminders of their efforts. Humans aren’t human at all, and yet that is what makes them so alive.

This was spine tingling to read, I would love more 😄😄

and here you are, continuing on, despite how hard it’s been

guys

look at the captions

i’m not crying you’re crying

I can’t help but feel it’s my fundamental right as a lesbian to grow 80 pairs of eyes, sprout wings, and emit an ominous low hum.

*aggressively asserts gayness by morphing into a interlocking set of rings that churn out holy fire and jumpscares catholics*

*takes the form of an incomprehensible ever shifting set of shapes that periodically chant out the sins of anyone in my vicinity and accidentally kills a man in kfc*

marries my wife like this and organises guest tables by which circle of hell they’re going to

reblog this post and RANK the following things: bread, potatoes, rice, pasta

every particle in the universe once came from the passing of a burning, brilliant star, somewhere in the vast expanse of space. that means every piece of you, every inch, mote, speck, all of it was formed by one of the most stunning light shows known to the universe. you were forged by the closest thing to holiness we really know.

sometimes i can see it. sometimes i’m so profoundly aware of those roots, i can see the light of an ancient sun reflected in your mouth, your eyes, your thin strands of hair, i can hear that sort of warmth in your voice and it’s all just so astounding.

i love it. i hope you know that.

Calypso’s island is magical. It supplies every possible demand Odysseus might have for food, drink, clothing, sex, companionship or conversation. He has only to pay over the coin of his self. His entire self. Calypso wants Odysseus body and soul. She wants everything about him. Physical, moral, and verbal. She wants the work of art that he has made of his own human being. And she wants it for all time. She promises to immortalize him.

When he rejects the transaction she’s baffled. Why would anyone choose to abandon a consumer paradise where he could live forever with a ravishing divinity? Odysseus’s answer is: “I know you’re a goddess and bigger and better looking than my wife, for you are deathless and ageless while she is a mere mortal, and yet, I prefer Penelope and what I really long for is the day of my return.” Odysseus’s answer sets up a calculus. He measures the infinite days and infinite pleasures of Calypso against the single day of his homecoming and the mortal attractions of his wife. The infinite comes up lacking.

Neither Odysseus nor Homer ever tells us exactly what the infinite lacks. That is, we never get an objective description of Penelope. We do not know if she is dark or fair. Odysseus no where itemizes the qualities that make her more desirable than a goddess. What becomes clear in the final stages of the poem however as husband and wife engage in a so called recognition scene that extends from Book XVII where Odysseus shows up in disguise at Penelope’s house to Book XXIII where she falls weeping in his arms and calls his name is that these two people are a match for each other in wits and ambiguity.

We watch Her throughout the six books seduce him by the simple tactic of never letting him know what she’s thinking. She dangles herself. She dangles the prospect of homecoming before him in a series of tantalizing interactions. She gives him clothing, a meal, a bath, a bed in the courtyard and several deep conversations without ever letting on whether she’s recognized him or not. Scholars still disagree on where exactly in the poem she decides Odysseus is Odysseus and she should welcome him home. Penelope’s power is the power of a meaning withheld.

—Anne Carson on the distinction between selling and selling out