#What it Means to be Human

[ginjones]

“What did Apollo dream of?” Asks Hob, his voice a questing note which brushes the curve of Dream’s ear. He lies in naked warmth across the corded thew of his back, breathing life into marble. Breathing for them both. They had stayed this way for hours. Swathed together in the casual rituals of Sunday. An indulgent afternoon spent riding the blissful peaks of orgasm. Fragments of time dissolving into the peony blush of an August sunset.

Muscles tense beneath him and for a moment, Hob wants to swallow his words. The question has come too early. He should have waited. Let another century pass in quiet restraint for answers to fall unbidden. Then Dream moves under him with tectonic force, and every muscle rolls to bear his weight with ease. Impassive eyes stare blankly up.

“Music,” Dream states simply and then, after a pause “how the notes of a Lyre might soar and scatter their seed in the wheat fields of Crete. He dreamed the way God’s dream. With intent.”

“Oh.” Hob replies, “…alright.” He is not sure how to take this or for what answer he had hoped.

When Dream had returned to him in the bright glory of a June afternoon, had called him friend and sat in alignment on the seat of a twin chair, he had felt himself exalted. Then came the gifts of a name, several in fact, and the first offering of answers. That he had lain at the base of a glass sphere for 133 years. That he had missed the sound of birds taking flight. That blood will turn a dark sepia if left to stain a cold stone floor. Hob had felt the brush of fingers to his palm then. He had felt each subtle contact point of hands, of wrists, of legs. He had said nothing. Dream, he had told him, is in the process of rebuilding.

Hob gives himself freely to this process. By July the casual touches had transformed into weekly rituals where, in the summer heat of his flat upstairs, they had venerated each other in the arching of bodies, in the twisting of limbs. In warmth. In wetness. In light.

Dream looks up at him now, the light of ancient stars reflecting in his eyes. He smiles faintly. “I have had many lovers, Hob”. And he knows this. He knows. But he wants to know more. He wants to unwind the tangled eons of his being and find the subtle frays of conquest. To trace the heart line of his relations with the gods of another age. To wonder perhaps, what they felt like to this impossible creature who, after making himself a willing body, became the vessel for their dreams.

And his traitorous mind will not stop its reckless imaginings. Of perfect bodies mounting each other with graceful fluidity. Rutting for hours, decadent in the gleam of their own transcendent   splendour. He regards his own body then and finds it lacking. And yet, to trace the distant lands of Dream’s past is to know him, fondly, completely. He holds the envious blade to his heart and smiles. 

“I want to show you something,” Hob says, “Wait here.”

He rises from the alter of the bed to gather the offerings of books. Stories told by others to share. Hutton’s Queens of the Wild, a battered copy of Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classiciae he had bought second-hand in Cambridge. Human tales to dying gods who wait, in the tomb of the earth, for idolatrous rebirth. He places them down kindly and wraps himself again in the comfort of the bed.

Seraphic black eyes glance over the pages for the briefest of seconds before one is turned, then another and Hob realises this is how Dream processes information. So that entire books could be read in minutes; knowledge subsumed, taken inwards, and swallowed whole. Each story catalogued and reformed as a star in the nightscape consciousness of the collective unconscious.

“And what about Brigid?” Hob asks again, brushing a finger over the image of a woodcut in Hutton’s book. Dream’s body curves towards him; the pale crescent of a waning moon.

“Protection to those who would adorn her with the pearls of their words. Love given at a price. She was triple natured and dreamt of sacraments in milk and blood.”

He imagines the proud swell of her breasts and the lustrous warmth of her sex. How Dream might have laid her down among the richness of the living earth, her legs parting in mimicry of the unfurling of shivering leaves. How he might have bent to kiss the curve of her fruiting form and then, with the surge of yellow iris and bloodied poppies their consummation would sing in the arrival of spring.

Dream watches him closely with the subtle glimpse of a frown. His features correct themselves back to unspoilt marble. He glances back at the book.

Hours pass, or maybe days, and Dream is feeding him grapes. He watches with fascination at the ripe burst between his teeth. He places one perfect finger to the corner of his mouth and Hob takes him in. They make love again. Dream edging inside gently; a curtesy that belies the sheer strength of him. His shoulders are the roll of Atlantic waters, his corded muscles the terrain of mountains. Every quiet command to sit or bend down or open for me is the distant promise of a rainstorm. A body made for the pleasure of the divine. In the drop after the rising heat of release, he is reformed in bliss and made anew.

 “And Saturn?” He asks, once more.

It is midnight now. Time hangs suspended from one day till the next. His throat is the frayed edge of a salt slicked rope. Language has come back to him slowly and with it, the recollection that he wants to learn more. He has been placed under soft, dark sheets and held in the willowy bough of cool arms. His world has shrunk to hold nothing but the senses; the smell of his own body, juniper and vetiver. The glow of orange lamplight casting shadows on the wall. The delicate ache of muscles. The sound of distant voices rises thorough the stone of buildings, the wood of floorboard.

Dream is under the blankets with him too. He opens his eyes; sapphire bright.

“Unwavering devotion despite the hardships of capricious seasons. To be fed the rich loam of toil. Saturnalia was a decedent celebration, but his worshippers did not sleep. They turned away from my realm to follow the ghost of his words.”

“And you’re okay with me not being…Like; you don’t mind if I’m not someone one who could…”  Be a god for you, He thinks. Be better than I am. Be good enough to keep you.

Dream graces him with the rarity of a true smile and moves to close the distance. He is pulled to rest his head in the cove of a moonlit scapula. He is held there in silence; Dream placing a hand to the soft warmth of his stomach then tracing the thick trail of chestnut hair that leads down towards his pubis. He nuzzles into the crook of his neck and Hob can feel the subtle sensation of air. Dream is breathing him in. In this sanctuary they have created for themselves he is reminded of several moments. Where Dream, bathed in morning light, has watched him butter bread, or rinse dishes, or change tracks on a playlist to find a favourite song. He has watched him water plants, watched him eat. Has asked, several times in fact, to place a hand to the bob of his throat when he swallows. Sometimes, when he has woken from the swell of sleep, he finds Dream’s attentions on the aura- space around him. His eyes lit from the inside, tracing the phantom movements of some unseen, imperceptible thing. Half asleep still, he has seen Dream move a hand through the gloaming air in a dextrous swirl of intent. Capturing something, examining it, then looking back at him. You dream such wonderful things.

And here, resting together, Dream’s voice brushes the curve of his ear.

“You are more than a god, Hob. You are human.”

@softest-punk

[soulsunpoets]

[If you’ve slept soundly at night the morning is exhilarating, I suppose; osamu dazai/ No longer human]

[count-demonlord-of-decadence]

[nuthhi]

i’ve always been the type of person that wants to make the important people in my life proud, but sometimes it feels like i’m doing it for someone i don’t know. i want to make Death proud. i want him to embrace me on our meeting and tell me i did a good job. and maybe sit on the beach with me and tell me he’s sorry i had to go. and i could tell him that knowing that makes it all worth it. i’m not sorry i have to go; i’m happy i got to stay a while.

“…make death proud to take us.”

- Shakespeare

[wolfieloveswade]

what people assume the Terminator movies are about:

robots from the future just killing people

what the Terminator movies are really about:

preventing robots from the future from killing people, it's an allegory about what it means to be human, how we lose our humanity and how to get it back, it's also a big Christian Allegory, Sarah Connor is Mary, Kyle Reese is Joseph, John Connor is Jesus Christ and the redeemed T-800 Terminator is a converted Christian martyr, it also serves as a warning to not abuse AI, yes it's a Sci Fi series, but it's also a Love Story and I think it's one of the most beautiful love stories of all time

[icypantherwrites]

New Fic: Interlude: What Makes Us Different (But Also Human) 

Part of the Human Nature series.

Summary: Where Pidge and Keith discuss what about their heritages of android and Galran are the same, different, and discover how truly human they actually are.

Story snippet:

“Are you tired?” she asked quieter. 

She could only imagine. He’d had the trials with the Blade of Marmora that morning that had been both physically and emotionally draining, then the whole thing with Allura in the hallway, the cryo-pod and yeah, she’d be exhausted too.

He gave a short nod. “Can’t sleep,” he said quietly and his hands — sans gloves, one of the few times she could recall seeing him without them — tightened to white-knuckles around his mug. 

“Come watch a movie with me,” Pidge said, the suggestion out of her mouth before she could think it through but that was perfect actually. “If you can’t sleep, you can at least focus on something else other than,” she tapped her head, “everything else. And maybe the nice, dark room with ambient sound and comfy, squishy couch pillows and blankets will make you oh so sleepy.”

Keith’s lips quirked up the barest bit. “Hercules?” 

“Duh,” Pidge grinned back at him. “Plus the young Hercules sort of sounds like Shiro, don’t you think? And it’ll be like he’s singing us a bedtime lullaby.”

Keith did let out a laugh then — a real one that crinkled his eyes — even as he shook his head and Pidge’s grin widened. 

[alanshee-keeper-of-realms]

My thoughts coming to the end of 2023

I know Im the villain in your story, I tried being the Upright Hero, but sometimes Chaos is better for the Story. I'm not the Angel yall want me to be,

I have been a part of those in a sacred marriage with the Norse God Loki. I have personally been following him since 2016, and over nearly 10 years has taught me there's more ways to slay a Dragon. The wider picture of life itself,

I'm not perfect and I don't want to be, I want to be Human and we humans are chaotic, yet clever individuals with so so much potential. Our Unity can tear Nations apart and rewrite civilization, yet humorously we are the laziest creatures.

I still chuckle and recall when someone told me. I am Christian so I feel like I had to rescue you, trying to put yourself in the heroic position in my story. A human trait to be afraid to be the Villian in someone's story.

I guess this year was all about what it means to me to be Human.

[shelledbirdbarber]

Language and the idea of being human

I think language is the prettiest human construct ever because someone thought that to communicate with each other we need to allot meanings to certain kinds of sounds and arrange them in a certain way. It is wholly rooted in the idea that in order to live, one has to connect with the other. Languages may die but the connection always lives.

[tornbluefoamcouch]

Artista: hayden calnin Álbum: What It means To be Human Ano: 2021 Faixas/Tempo: 11/41min Estilo: Indie Pop/Folktronica Data de Execução: 29/07/2024 Nota: 6,0 Melhor Música: Politicians

[noknowshame]

why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?

[petrichara]

‘Love is the one thing that we’re capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space.’

“Eulogy from a Physicist” by Aaron Freeman, with quotes from Interstellar by Christopher Nolan, and images from NASA, Interstellar, Getty, Petrichara, and Reuters.

1- NASA: GOODS-South.

2- NASA: NGC 1850.

3- NASA: Iberian Peninsula.

4- Christopher Nolan: Interstellar.

5- NASA: From the Earth to the Moon.

6- Hannah La Folette Ryan: Subway Hands.

7- Adams Evans: Heart Nebula.

8- NASA: Exploring the Antennae.

9- NASA: Crescent Moon from the International Space Station.

10- Petrichara.

11- Getty Images.

12- NASA: SMACS 0723.

13- Reuters

[exquisitelyeco]

Looking deeper

This is not an easy post to write. And it is going to pain some, anger others and possibly bring argument. Nevertheless this demands to be written. It is to explain both to Jewish and goyim (Gentile) what their own holy books have to say about end times. This is not to claim I have all the answers. I don’t. And to be honest, I have heard Rabbi’s who do not, Preachers who do not, Priests who do…

[bouncinghedgehog]

unique

Daily writing promptWhich aspects do you think makes a person unique?View all responses hmmmmm…. A distinction without a difference is a type of logical fallacy where an author or speaker attempts to describe a distinction between two things where no discernible difference exists. It is particularly used when a word or phrase has connotations associated with it that one party to an argument…

[wheremymindgoeswandering]

unique

Daily writing promptWhich aspects do you think makes a person unique?View all responses hmmmmm…. A distinction without a difference is a type of logical fallacy where an author or speaker attempts to describe a distinction between two things where no discernible difference exists. It is particularly used when a word or phrase has connotations associated with it that one party to an argument…

[chenxhen]

Society is no longer social and civilization is no longer civil.

"You can now like notes." - Instagram, 2024

In a world where a double-tap has replaced words, it's evident humans are losing the very essence of what it means to be human. Language - the beauty of our species' ability to communicate complex thoughts. It's devastating to see it be replaced with actions that confuse each other. Coupled with fear and anxiety we're being forced to dumb-down. Civilization? What a joke. We're being trapped in cages of self-doubt and paranoia, being fed with little red hearts, and given a false sense of freedom. We're being trained to fit a captivity ideal. Many of us are too scared to fight, and too obedient to escape. We don't even realize what is happening. No one can tell me it's in our psychology to follow the crowd. Am I not also human? Are the world's greatest changemakers and artists not human? We're all the same, so why are so many of us denying the truth?

THE PRETENSE OF "SOCIAL" MEDIA

Social media. It's a great invention of the 21st century. This is a fact. We have seen the many benefits of the social media applications that have been created. It's allowed us to connect with friends more easily, take inspiration from others, and have a reach that was once unimaginable. However, there's no denying that the eruption of internet culture has made our daily real-world lives less social.

The most used social media app amongst people aged 18 to 39 years old (inarguably the current and next generations) is Instagram. Many people use it to stay connected with their friends. Watching our friends' stories, sending each other reels, and liking each other's posts, are all ways in which we tell each other, "Hey, I'm still alive and I still care about you." It's great. Maintaining a connection has been made easier than ever. Aside from friends, we're also able to keep our eyes on our favourite celebrities and artists. Whether or not there's a concert coming up soon, a new song release, a new masterpiece....We are never waiting too long to see what will inspire our own lives next. As a result we are continually improving. Some people even take this improvement to the next level, by using social media to network. Ambitious individuals meet other ambitious individuals' (profiles), follow each other, and maybe even speak to each other, and POSSIBLY even work together. This ability to connect outside of our God given circle has increased our opportunities generously.

On the flipside (the more burnt side of the pancake, we hide by placing onto the plate), how real and how useful are these positives to social media when speaking to its intended use? Sure we've liked a friend's post, watched all their stories, and sent them reels, but does your friend actually know how you feel about them? These days girls and boys band together to try to figure out what a "like" from their crush means. "He's watched all my stories. He must be in love with me." What happened to just asking and getting a straightforward answer? Chances are, that rarely happens, and people are left with confusion, not a genuine connection. This type of odd speechless interaction has even extended to friendships. I'm sure many of you have found it hard to even make a genuine friendship these days. Moving onto our favourite celebrities, is there actually any practical use to being able to see into their lives? Most of us will never even be seen by one of our idols, let alone have a conversation with them. Unlike with our friends, socializing isn't even in the question. It's only resulted in unhealthy parasocial relationships, where people believe they are friends with someone they've never even looked in the eye. Furthermore, LinkedIn (the primary networking social media application), is starting to become more and more like FaceBook and Instagram, where "professionals" post blog posts that a minority of their followers will read, and large companies boast about their wonderful work environment. I've tried to use LinkedIn for its intended purpose, and most of the time I am met with scammers, and collaborations that never fruition. Putting a screen between business partners, or any two parties only creates a shallow relationship.

What's easier than opening our mouths, and using our vocal cords to speak, if we're talking about socializing? Nothing. Moving our vocal cords quite literally requires no voluntary effort. Yet, we've been lead to believe that phone applications have made socializing easier. It may have broadened our reach, and widened our circles, but it has made the personal impersonal.

THE DOWNGRADE OF FASHION

This topic may seem like it's come out of leftfield on a post about forming connections, but going back to my introduction rant, the downgrade of fashion is just more evidence of humans forgetting what it means to be human. Like language, it's a sophisticated human quality. And thus, another way we can stay connected as a species.

Recently, while doing my daily doom-scrolling, I've come across quite a few videos, and comments that speak to the glaringly obvious downgrade in the effort of putting together an outfit. These days, most people's go-to outfits probably involve some sort of denim pant, and a random shirt. It can look clean and put together, that's true (just take a look at Dakota Johnson rocking her simple blue jeans and white T-shirt combo). However, many people don't put as much effort in trying to look good for other people, or they don't know how to. I've seen way too many teens wearing pajama pants and slippers outside to be happy about the way we dress, especially when compared to the garments that people of all ages used to wear in the Victorian Era, or the Qing Dynasty. You can argue that wearing pajamas outside is a distinct North American quality, but at a global scale, we just don't dress as well as we used to. People used to wear suits to go to the mall. Now it's acceptable to show up to the department store in sweats. The next step might as well be showing up outside butt-naked, like all our mammal cousins.

It sounds funny, and contrived to talk about something like clothing which doesn't seem as important a human quality as language and complex thought, but which other animal makes their own clothes? And what comes next? Once we start walking around naked, are we going to start sleeping in the fields, drink river water, and communicate using growls and grunts? That may be a stretch sure, but even with the incredible accessibility of fashion today, humans all over seem to be losing the will to dress-up. In some people it's gone as far as NOT HAVING THE ABILITY to dress well. We're losing our will to be civilized homo sapiens, and the downgrade in our fashion sense is only one indicator of the greater fall we are experiencing.

THE LOSS OF HONEST HEART-TO-HEART CONVERSATIONS

All in all, the increased use of internet slang, and decrease in unity of dress, are all signs that we are becoming less and less connected. The widespread use of social media as a replacement to actually socializing has made connections unclear. Where do I stand with this person? I may never know. We've accepted this as reality, when the truth is, knowing comes as easily as asking one simple question. As a result of having less genuine connections, we've lost the will to impress others as well. What's the use of keeping up appearances and being civilized, when barely anyone is able to have a heart-to-heart conversation with another person? The double-tap is the modern equivalent to a caveman grunt. We can't see the human-ness in others, so we are choosing to also leave our human-ness behind.

The universe granted us the gift of being different. What separates us from animals is the act of honing this gift.