axeality-blog

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Gradually, but deliberately…I have made myself into a machine. I have done it deliberately—in order to endure, in order not to feel. I have deliberately killed my senses—I have deliberately died.

T.S. Eliot, from Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

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throughout this great nation, never have we been more unified, because now more than ever, Panem is speaking with one voice. the Capitol and the districts bound together in solidarity…

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Make him pay for it.

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Jenny Holzer

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Ed Sheeran - Make It Rain (from Sons of Anarchy)

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Ignore every instinct to flee. Remember: you are a monster too

Destiny; fieldplate gauntlets description (via copperwindchime)

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You remember too much, my mother said to me recently. Why hold onto all that? And I said,Where can I put it down?

Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay” (via aercis)

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females of the hunger games: JOHANNA MASON "what if we set your backyard on fire?"

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Sarah J. Mass, Heir of Fire

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Missing you won’t bring you back.

My Heartbreaking Six Word Story (via missinyouiskillingme)

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Sorry for skipping a day my dear. So you said Johanna hates Christmas, but if she was forced to spend the holiday with one person, who would it be and why? - Secret Santa.

oh HhHHhhhH goodness this is going to hurt even if you didn't mean it to.so obviously, obviously, she'd prefer to spend it with her family. but they're all dead.so her next choice would be finnick, bc bffs (and bc a lot of headcanons that i don't have time to go into)................... but he's also dead.hmph.3rd and final choice: annie. (post mj)                                  canonically: +katniss & peeta                                 headcanonically: gale                                 in a perfect world: haymitch

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S E A W A T E R S U N K

                 when he finally finds her, she’s ringed by                  destruction of the worst kind; cracked stones                  have been littered carelessly across the floor,                  plant pots overturned, grass pulled from its                  home so viciously he almost winces. her rage                  hums, physical, in the air, & though it may                  be against his better nature he leans against                  the wall behind her, some pretense at                  [ carelessness ] lighting the lines of his body.                  there’s a bottle of something in his hand— part                  of haymitch’s not-so-secret stash, & something                  he’ll have to pay back before the man hears of                  it & skins him alive. still, just this once, it’s worth                  the risk— a drunk johanna is rather easier to deal                  with than an angry sober one, he has learned.

                 he clears his throat & nods to the chaos around them.

                                ❛ nice. ❜

          endlessly frustrating; a barrage of broken memoirs           cluttered in a pool of BLOOD. listening, apparently           is much too difficult. the final breath of h o m e to diminish           but there's a corroded finality to this one-- a troublesome           agitation hell-bent on sending her into OBLIVION. it's           the memories that insist on reaping the most [ corruption ]           settling in unwelcome like blood-splattered jewelry.                                         her mind was a fucking playground.                                                                                             another one dead.                                                                       it was all becoming too routine.                 own blood t ric k le s to the floor; a tight                   WINCE forming upon stolid features.                 she's rabid, a storm set on dismantle.                    she feels his presence before it's                 common knowledge; & where there                   used to be shame, she finds only                      p    r    o    j    e    c    t    i    o    n.                                                             ' it's some of my best work. '

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                   well, you  can guess what this is by now. my attempt to thank each of you                    for sicking by me. 1 - 3 winners will get a new theme & icons, if they wish!                             i) you must be following me, don’t be a poop head & unfollow after.                                                              ii) likes & reblogs count.                                                     iii) you must be a roleplay blog.

                                        ends ; december 13th! ( started: december 6th)

                                                                     themes ;

                                                ♐  ♐  ♐  ♐   ♐  ��  ♐  ♐*  ♐*                                                                   ⁽ * ⁻ ᶰᵉʷ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉ ⁾

                                                                      icons ;

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( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) so you like this ship that i like too

( ͡o ͜ʖ ͡o) let me tell you my

( ͡O ͜ʖ ͡O) ＳＡＤ　ＨＥＡＤＣＡＮＯＮＳ

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          it's a fearful gaze set           upon CAPITOL-STANDARD chiseled features.           he's ( foolish ) to behave so           callous. & it's an           absolute wonder that his heightened           sense of self-preservation hasn't           steered him in the correct direction.           a TIME BOMB in a city full           of false matches was feat desperate           to [ destroy ]           for her, it was different. the act           endured naturally since day 1.           & the     d e c e p t i o n     never           ends. it's the biggest game           he'll ever fail to recognize.           so she loops a casual arm through           his stolid weight, & pulls           him from the flash of LETHAL cameras.           it's her turn to snarl.                ' -- what in the hell                     do you think you're D O I N G ? '

          ⎾↣⏌ he allows a break in expression if only to roll his eyes,           the woman’s — girl’s, for she is barely older than he even if her           list of kills is greater than his own — words finding some ember of           amused irritation within the spark that it is chest. she’s a victor,           which means that she has her share of rumours. he’s sure his           own have already begun to spread, leaking through the capitol           streets like blood from a wound— he will have a lover in all 12           districts by morn, he is sure, & 12 more in the capitol. the very           idea repulses him in more ways than he can put word to, for           these are the people who watched him KILL, who watched it           destroy him from the inside out, who watched him snap an ally’s           — a friend’s — neck. & now they truss him up, parade him about,           fawn at his feet. it makes him want to vomit— sometimes, he can           feel the bile at the back of his throat, though he isn’t sure if it’s           from [ disgust ] or anger. ( & there is the dread spun by snow’s           request of his presence before he can go home — is this normal?           why must he spend additional time with the one man he would           not regret kiling? )

          finally, he turns his gaze on his fellow victor.

                    ❛ blush? you? ❜

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I’m not like the rest of you. There’s no one left i love.