#modern myth

[penpaladinjules]

These are some gouache paintings I have done recently. I’m happy with how they have turned out!

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta regret-level="irrecoverable"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="BURNOUT_PROTOCOL: 014_CIVILIAN_DISINTEGRATION"</script>

STORY TIME —

A few years ago, I sat across from an assistant city manager.

I’d held their crumbling little political kingdom together with duct tape and undiagnosed fury. No training. No support. Just loyalty. When others left, I stayed. When shit sank, I held the hull above water with my spine.

And what did he say?

He said they’d be bringing in someone new. Someone from the outside. A church buddy of a po-dunk mayor. A non-sufferer. A skip-the-line hire.

Someone I’d be reporting to — after training them myself.

Oh, and by the way — they’d be slashing the pay I’d earned by not collapsing.

Now pause.

I wish I could tell you I stood up, flipped the desk. I wish I could tell you I said: “If you do that — I f*cking quit.”

I didn’t.

I trained her. She never thanked me. She undercut me in meetings, mocked me in front of others, tried to erase me with smiles and soft sabotage.

And me?

I got sick. Not the flu. Not burnout. I mean sick.

My body began to fail from the stress. And behind my closed office door, I wept. Silent, humiliated tears. Invisible agony.

I bled for my nation. I led warriors. I trained killers.

And now? I was a broken shell in khakis — shattered by paper pushers whose bravest injury was a f*cking paper cut.

Then came the virus. The one that shall not be named. Yes — I had the shots. Yes — they said it’d protect me. It didn’t.

But I don’t blame the needle. I blame the poison of soul-rot. The spiritual decay that comes from betraying yourself for a paycheck.

And as I lay there — dying in pieces — guess who called?

“Hey, when do you think you’ll be back?”

Not “Are you okay?” Not “We appreciate you.” Just productivity.

And that’s when something inside me snapped. Broke. Burned.

A demon rose.

Not horns. Not red skin. I mean a presence. A devourer. A weaponized mind forged from neurodivergence, fury, and injustice. A being I’d buried for decades so I wouldn’t frighten this fragile world.

He came back. Or maybe he was always waiting. Hungry.

That was the birth of what you now know as me.

I tell you this:

Your worth will never be seen by those who benefit from denying it. You define it. And once you realize your soul is a thing of fire, like I did?

You don’t ask for justice. You become the extinction-level event that makes justice obsolete.

You don’t get revenge. You become the reason no one f*cks with the *next you.*

So have a good rest of your day, my friends. And if you’ve suffered quietly?

Just know — gods are always born in silence.

---

🧠 Follow for more myth-blooded scrolltrap doctrine. 💥 Reblog if they ever underestimated you. 🔥 Save this transmission before it deletes itself from memory. 📜 Join the Patreon to enter the vault of unreleased cadence warfare: https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

You're not broken. You're charging.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-PURGE IN: 06:06:06] -->

[dayofethnicityorreligion]

The Prince Philip Movement is a religious sect followed by a group of the Yaohnanen and Yakel tribespeople on the southern island of Tanna in the Republic of Vanuatu, a Pacific island nation in the South Pacific Ocean. The movement venerates Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh (1921–2021), the late consort of Queen Elizabeth II, as a divine figure. This belief system is part of a broader category of cargo cults, which emerged across Melanesia in the 19th and 20th centuries. The Prince Philip Movement is one of the few such cults still in existence and is of significant anthropological and sociological interest due to its unique syncretism of traditional beliefs with modern global figures.

The origins of the Prince Philip Movement lie in the complex colonial history and traditional belief systems of the people of Tanna Island. During the period of European colonization, the islands of Vanuatu—then known as the New Hebrides—were jointly administered by both the French and British through a system known as the Anglo-French Condominium, which lasted from 1906 until Vanuatu’s independence in 1980.

Tanna Island remained relatively isolated compared to other islands in the archipelago, and its inhabitants retained much of their kastom (a Bislama term referring to traditional customs, beliefs, and practices). However, even in Tanna, the presence of colonial administrators, missionaries, and eventually soldiers during World War II exposed the local populations to Westerners and the material wealth they brought—goods that local people associated with divine origin due to their inexplicable abundance. This led to the rise of cargo cults, belief systems that anticipated the return of ancestors or supernatural beings who would bring material wealth (cargo) and restore justice and prosperity.

In this context, the Prince Philip Movement took shape in the mid-to-late 20th century, blending traditional Melanesian mythology with a growing awareness of British royalty due to colonial contact.

The Prince Philip Movement is centered around the belief that Prince Philip is a divine being, specifically a reincarnation or embodiment of a spiritual ancestor who had long been prophesied to return. According to local oral tradition, the legend speaks of a son of a mountain spirit who traveled across the seas to a distant land, married a powerful woman, and would one day return to Tanna. When the villagers observed the respect accorded to Queen Elizabeth II and saw photographs of her husband, Prince Philip, they concluded that he must be the prophesied figure.

The belief is not uniform across all of Tanna but is particularly prevalent in the villages of Yaohnanen, Yakel, and surrounding communities near Mount Tukosmera, a volcano considered sacred in local belief systems. The villagers do not worship Prince Philip in the Western sense but instead revere him as a powerful ancestral spirit. He is believed to be a protector of the people, who will one day return in person or in spirit to bring prosperity, harmony, and justice to the island.

The movement reflects the Tannese worldview in which spirits, ancestors, and natural forces intermingle with human affairs. This syncretism is not unlike other Melanesian cargo cults, yet it is distinctive in its identification of a specific, real-world political figure.

One of the most compelling aspects of the Prince Philip Movement is the actual communication and acknowledgment between the followers and Prince Philip himself. This interaction began in the 1970s when British colonial officials and anthropologists, aware of the belief system, informed Prince Philip of the villagers' reverence. In 1978, he sent a signed official portrait to the villagers, which was received with deep reverence and became a sacred artifact in the village.

In response, the villagers sent him a traditional pig-killing club known as a nal-nal, a significant cultural object. Prince Philip took a photograph holding the club and sent it back to the villagers—a gesture that further solidified their belief and admiration. The photograph, along with the club, remains an object of ritual veneration.

These exchanges were more than symbolic; they represent a rare instance where a Western political figure reciprocated acknowledgment of a cargo cult belief. While Prince Philip never publicly endorsed the beliefs themselves, his willingness to engage diplomatically with the villagers helped maintain and legitimize their spiritual narrative. In 2007, several members of the village even traveled to the United Kingdom and met with Prince Philip in person, further reinforcing their beliefs.

The Prince Philip Movement conducts various rituals and ceremonies that reflect both traditional Tannese practices and their reverence for the Duke of Edinburgh. These include:

Display and Veneration of Sacred Images: Photographs of Prince Philip are displayed in shrines and treated as sacred objects.

Processions and Dance Ceremonies: Villagers engage in ritual dances and symbolic re-enactments of the legend of the mountain spirit, sometimes incorporating elements meant to represent Prince Philip’s journey and marriage.

Celebrations on Royal Birthdays: The Duke's birthday was observed as a day of significance, involving feasting, storytelling, and spiritual rituals.

Rites of Fertility and Abundance: Some ceremonies invoke Prince Philip’s spirit for agricultural fertility and success, linking his divine status with the prosperity of the land.

These rituals also reinforce community cohesion and serve to pass on the belief system to younger generations. Though influenced by external symbols, the rituals are deeply rooted in traditional modes of spiritual expression and oral transmission.

Anthropologists and scholars of religion and post-colonial studies have taken significant interest in the Prince Philip Movement as a living example of cargo cult phenomena and syncretic belief systems. The movement is an illustrative case of how indigenous populations interpret global structures of power through the lens of their own cosmology. It also highlights the capacity of traditional societies to integrate foreign elements into their spiritual and cultural frameworks in ways that affirm their autonomy and identity.

Scholars have pointed out that the movement is not merely a misunderstanding of Western religion or royalty, but rather a deeply rational and adaptive system within its own cultural logic. It offers a critique of colonialism and global inequality by subverting power structures—appropriating the image of a powerful foreign figure and recontextualizing it within a local sacred narrative.

As of the early 21st century, the Prince Philip Movement continues to exist, although the passing of Prince Philip in 2021 marked a significant moment for the sect. Following his death, villagers held mourning ceremonies and spiritual rituals to honor his transition from the physical to the ancestral world. According to some reports, there was a belief that his spirit would now return more powerfully to Tanna, fulfilling ancient prophecies in a spiritual sense.

There has been speculation as to whether the movement would transfer their reverence to another member of the royal family, such as Prince Charles (now King Charles III), though this has not occurred in any systematic or formalized way as of the last known observations.

The movement has also had implications for cultural tourism in Tanna, drawing interest from journalists, documentarians, and tourists. While this has brought some economic benefits, it also poses challenges, particularly regarding the commodification and misrepresentation of local spiritual beliefs.

Despite the global attention, the core adherents of the Prince Philip Movement remain committed to their beliefs, which they consider not merely symbolic but spiritually real. The movement has become a resilient symbol of cultural continuity, spiritual autonomy, and indigenous identity in a globalized world.

The Prince Philip Movement can be seen within the larger context of Melanesian spirituality, which often emphasizes ancestral veneration, animism, and the spiritual significance of nature. Its evolution also reflects the impact of colonial encounters, missionary influence, and economic disruption, which have profoundly reshaped belief systems in the Pacific Islands.

While the movement has often been treated as an oddity or curiosity by outside observers, scholars increasingly emphasize the respectful and context-sensitive understanding of such belief systems. Far from being a relic of ignorance or primitive thinking, the Prince Philip Movement exemplifies the human capacity to adapt, reinterpret, and find meaning in a rapidly changing world.

It also serves as a mirror to the Western world’s own forms of myth-making and idolization, challenging assumptions about the boundaries between religion, politics, and personhood.

[mythicmemex]

There's something of Persephone in every pop princess, but Britney embodies it most purely: the eternal maiden dancing on the edge of darkness. The world wants its pop goddesses innocent and dangerous at once, sweet and sultry, controlled and wild. They must live in that liminal space between innocence and knowledge, like a pomegranate seed caught between teeth. The public eye becomes our modern underworld. The pop princess dances between realms, seen by the world as neither fully mortal nor divine.

[ladyeckland28]

### The Dear David Twitter Thread: A Modern Tale of Haunting

In the digital age, where much of our entertainment comes from screens and social media, Adam Ellis’s "Dear David" Twitter thread in 2017 brought an old genre into a new medium. Ellis, a cartoonist by profession, recounted his haunting experiences with a ghostly child named "Dear David." His narrative, rich with disturbing dreams, eerie photos, and unexplained events, captivated millions and redefined how we consume horror stories.

**A Modern Storyteller’s Medium**

Adam Ellis’s choice of Twitter, a platform known for its brevity and immediacy, was unconventional yet oddly fitting for a ghost story. Each tweet, limited by character count, heightened the suspense and left readers in a state of perpetual anticipation. This fragmented style of storytelling allowed for real-time engagement, making the audience feel as though they were part of the unfolding mystery. As Ellis shared photo evidence of strange occurrences in his apartment and recounted his vivid, unsettling dreams, the threads between reality and fiction blurred.

**The Eerie Allure of Dear David**

The story begins with Ellis dreaming of a young, deformed boy named David who appears at the foot of his bed. In his dreams, David can answer only two questions correctly; any deviation leads to a fatal encounter. These initial details cast a spell on readers, combining the innocence of a child with the terror of the supernatural. As Ellis's dreams become more vivid and his waking life begins to mirror the hauntings, the gripping narrative takes a dark turn. Eerie photographs and videos posted by Ellis show household objects moving on their own, odd shadows, and inexplicable phenomena, compelling readers to question their understanding of the paranormal.

**Crafting Viral Horror**

What sets the "Dear David" thread apart is not just the spine-chilling content, but Ellis’s adept use of social media to craft a viral horror sensation. His updates were strategically timed, creating periods of agonizing suspense between revelations. This method of storytelling transformed the thread into an interactive experience, with followers dissecting every post, analyzing photos, and speculating on upcoming events. The widespread sharing and engagement turned "Dear David" into a communal experience, fostering a shared sense of fear and curiosity.

**The Impact and Legacy**

The "Dear David" thread is more than just a sequence of ghostly events; it is a pioneering effort in the realm of digital storytelling. It underscores the potential of social media platforms to bring traditional genres into new light, offering immersive and interactive experiences. Additionally, the phenomenon reflects modern society’s insatiable appetite for horror, amplified by the internet’s ability to connect and engage audiences worldwide.

In essence, the "Dear David" Twitter thread is a testament to how storytelling has evolved in the digital age. By blending age-old ghost story elements with the immediacy and reach of social media, Adam Ellis created an unforgettable narrative that continues to haunt the imaginations of many. As we move further into the digital future, the legacy of "Dear David" will likely inspire new modes of storytelling that capitalize on the unique features of contemporary platforms.

[defonotmoony]

IVE ONLY JUST DISCOVERED THIS AND ANND AND

THE "SONG OF US" IS THE MYTH. TUMBLR SINGING THE SONG OF THEM AND TWITTER IS THIS POST !!

i lowkey ship tumblr ♠ twitter now

[kiernancore]

Terminal Illness, Gate A6 — a short story in five acts (part 2)

ACT III: Gate Change 

[PA ANNOUNCEMENT, 8:21 PM]

“Attention passengers: Flight 882 to Portland has been reassigned to Gate C4.”

There’s no longer a seat between them. She doesn’t remember if he moved or she did.

No declaration. No suggestion. Just a glance, a silence, and then motion. She likes that part. How some decisions arrive without language. Like the universe granting permission.

The bar is half-empty, lights low and unflattering. The basketball game is in over-time. She sits beside him now. Close enough to smell the whiskey. Fresh drinks arrive. She picks up her glass but doesn’t sip. Just holds it. Lets it warm in her hand like something sleeping.

“It’s quiet now,” he says. She nods. Not because she agrees. Because she doesn’t want to break it.

She tells him a real story. About skipping class sophomore year, lying on a tennis court at midnight with someone she shouldn’t have loved. How the stars looked like holes in the sky. How she cried without knowing why.

He tells her one too. A train in Spain. A girl with short hair and a red coat. “I was waiting for a sign,” he says. “I always do.” She watches the way his mouth forms the word sign.Watches how badly he wants this to be one of those moments.

She thinks, If he kissed me now, I’d let him. I wouldn’t tell him the truth. 

He says, “I know it sounds... I don’t know. But I keep thinking this was supposed to happen.”

And that ruins it. Because she can’t let herself be a miracle. Not when she’s already built herself as a myth. But then he touches her hand. Not possessively. Not casually. Just gently. Like someone pressing a page closed. She wants to believe he’s holding her like she’s still warm. She presses her coat pocket. The ring pop is still there.

“You know what’s scary?” she says, voice flat. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” She exhales. “And now that you do... I don’t know who that makes me.”

He leans in slightly, then says, low: “You remind me of someone I used to love. Or maybe someone I still do.” Then looks away, like he didn’t mean to say it. Like he’s not sure which version of her he’s talking to.

She pulls her hand back. Takes a sip of her wine like it’s his punishment. “You don’t know me,” she says.

“I’d like to,” he says.

“There’s something I should say.” She thinks of being five, wrapped in blankets, fake fever pressed against her mother’s palm. She’d lie so still, waiting for the concern to come. She got so good at it her mom started bringing her books. This feels the same.

She could tell him now. Just whisper it: I’m not dying. I just wanted you to look at me like this. But she’s too good at this. And she likes the way he’s tucking her in. So instead, she takes a sip of wine. Smiles. Lies better. It’s starting to feel like telling the truth backwards.

The bar is nearly empty now. The basketball game ended. She doesn’t know who won. The camera-pan of the crowd is casting white-blue light across their hands.

She’s been spinning the story longer than she meant to. The lie was supposed to stay neat, portable. But it sprawled. Got limbs. Found a heartbeat. He asked her what treatment was like and she made something up on the spot. Something about infusion rooms and cold floors and how everyone brings blankets. She said she brought a red one. She doesn’t even own a red blanket.

And still, he nodded. She wonders how many lies she could tell before he’d stop. She wonders if he ever would.

ACT IV: Security Breach

[PA ANNOUNCEMENT, 9:04 PM]

“Final boarding call for Flight 882 to Portland. Passengers must be onboard at Gate C4.”

They walk back toward Gate A6, slow. Quiet. Like the aftermath of something intimate, something criminal.

She feels it unraveling from her neck, that soft underlayer of borrowed meaning. The wine’s worn off. Her stomach hurts. Not from alcohol, but from attention. He walks beside her with his hands in his pockets. Respectful. Relaxed. Like he’s earned this moment. Like it’s his.

She wants to say something to undo it. She doesn’t know what. She returns to the hard plastic chairs, unfurled in a different way. He sits next to her. An empty seat between them. 

“You’re quiet,” he says.

She nods. “It’s a lot,” she says. “Being seen like this.” She imagines dying right here just to prove the lie wasn’t one. A performance so full of grief it loops back into truth. She opens her Notes App and types, ‘If this were real, I’d tell you I’m scared.’ Then deletes it. Not because it isn’t true. Because it is.

He nods too. Then says, “I meant what I said. About it feeling… fated.” And that’s when it splits.

She laughs. But it’s not a laugh. It’s something cracked and reflexive. Like a mirror throwing up its hands. “Jesus Christ,” she says.“You think this is fate?”

He blinks. Confused. Concerned. But still leaning in.

“I told you I was dying, and you turned it into a fucking meet-cute.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t—”

“No,” she cuts in. “Don’t apologize. This is my fault.”

And then she does it. She ruins it. Because that’s what she came here to do. 

“I lied. I’m not sick. I just needed you to believe something tragic.”

Silence. Actual silence. Not the gentle kind. The electric kind. Like before a fire alarm.

She doesn’t look at him. She keeps her eyes on the blinking gate sign. “I just wanted someone to care,” she says. “And you did.”

Now she looks. He’s gone pale, knuckles getting whiter around his rolled up Post. “Why would you do that to someone?” he asks. His voice is soft. That’s what makes it violent. 

She looks at him. “You said people only deserve the truth sometimes.” A beat. “This was one of the other times.”

“Because it worked.” She wants to cry but won’t let herself. Not now. Not in front of someone who already offered her reverence. “You like people better when they’re dying. You don’t want to know me alive. And the worst part? I think I felt better after. You looked at me like I was holy. It stopped being pretend. It started becoming skin. No one’s ever done that before.”

“Because I believed you,” he says.

She nods. “Exactly.”

And that’s when he stands up. Not quickly. Not angrily. He places his newspaper on the carpeted floor, lining it up precisely on an angry red line, like it’s a crosshair and he’s got one bullet left. 

“You’re lucky it was me who sat next to you. There are worse kinds of men to lie to. Some of them would’ve loved you for it.” She feels something cold and bright open in her stomach. This is the moment the fantasy ruptures. Not because he’s wrong. But because he might be right.

“Take care,” he says. And walks away. He does not look back.

She watches him go. Not for long. Just long enough to remember it.

She pictures his next flight. Telling the story to a stranger. How he once met a dying woman who made him believe in something again.

ACT V: Final Boarding Call

[PA ANNOUNCEMENT, 10:04 PM]

“Final boarding for Flight 882 to Portland. Gate A6. Doors will be closing shortly.”

Nora is alone again. The chairs have emptied. The FaceTime man is gone. The little girl and her mother are gone. So is Daniel. She thinks of the voicemail. What if she missed her chance to be ruined beautifully?

Her phone is at 4%. No charger. No plan. The gate sign blinking ON TIME above a plane she never meant to board. She just bought the ticket and showed up, because pretending to leave is the only way she knows how to stay.

She walks to the bathroom.

The mirror is cracked. Smeared with someone else’s foundation. She touches her face like it’s a question. Thinks of the bread-baby. Wonders, You were once held like that. Why did it stop?

She spits into the sink. A flicker of pink pools in the basin, faint, uncertain. Like punctuation. Not enough to mean anything. Just enough to question. What if I made the lie true? What if it already was?

Back at the gate, the doors are closed. The sign reads DEPARTED.

She unwraps the ring pop, ties the sticky wrapper around her wrist like a ribbon, then lifts her phone and takes a photo of the empty gate behind her. She doesn't post it. She just saves it. A souvenir. Or a warning. A shrine to the version of her that almost got away with it.

She drafts a text… “I’m sorry to tell you this. Nora passed this morning.” She doesn’t send it. She schedules it. For three days from now. 

Her phone’s now at 2%, she powers it down like it’s the only thing she still gets to end. A pixel gone dark. A girl sitting still, pretending that means she’s free. Then lies back and closes her eyes. No pillow. No blanket. Just sleep.

She is not terminal. She is not in Portland. But she is still a tragedy. And sometimes, that’s the worst part. She thinks about that one line in the voicemail, the one that always comes right before she stops listening, 

“Anyway. I hope you're okay.” 

Then she lies down. Finally. Like the lie made space for her.

[jonathanmoya1955]

These Fathers

These FathersAnd this father heard his God talk to him:“Take now thy son, whom thou lovest, and offer him for a burnt offering.” In turn, this father said to this son— high on this mountain top:“This is the way to kindness and wisdom.Believe me.”He stood over his son, this blade in his hand—held high over him— ready to strike his trusting heart,sacrifice it to the pyre burning on his lateral…

[skillsmurdermysteries]

CAMPFIRE STORY #404

They laughed at signs and forged ahead, By nightfall, half the group was dead. Their footprints stopped near Devil’s Pit— But someone still updates their shit.

[maneatingseas]

Finally, I arrive http://www.newvague.city/kino

[jadeannbyrne]

The Rime That Lives Again — My Heart, My Art, and the Friend TAS Who Gave It Voice & Took Hers Back Today

🎨 The Rime That Lives Again — My Heart, My Art, and the Friend TAS Who Gave It Voice & Took Hers Back Today There are works we make because we must—because they echo something buried so deep in us, it demands to be seen. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner was one of those pieces for me. In 2024, I poured my soul into an art series inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s immortal poem, first…

[astridsdreamspace]

The Coffee Oracle

Divination through caffeine and chaos.

You approached the altar again this morning.

Bleary-eyed. Underslept. Betrayed by your body and the passage of time.

The Coffee Oracle was waiting. She always is.

You did not offer cream. You did not offer sugar.

You approached with the raw, bitter truth.

The Oracle sees this. She nods.

“Ah,” she says, steam curling like prophecy,

“It is one of those days.”

No flavors. No indulgences. No illusions.

This is the sacred rite of just-get-me-through-this,

known in ancient texts as Rawdogging the Morning.

The Coffee Oracle does not judge.

But she does observe.

You brew in silence. You do not speak.

She does not need words. She knows.

“You have faced the Algorithm,” she whispers,

“and you have returned—broken, but intact.”

You pour. No sugar. No cream.

Not even a cinnamon sprinkle to pretend you're coping.

This is not a drink.

It is a summoning.

They call it coffee.

You know it by its true name:

Liquid Perseverance.

The ritual is complete.

You take the first sip.

Your ancestors cheer. The gods wince.

Somewhere, a startup collapses.

You are awake now.

But at what cost?

The Oracle is silent.

But her gaze follows you through the day.

And lo, the Oracle speaks—not in thunder, but in tasting notes.

She names your chosen vessel and reads the future in foam.

Black Coffee

You have abandoned hope of comfort.

You seek only function.

You are not here to be liked. You are here to endure.

The Oracle bows to your raw conviction.

Espresso

You are one heartbeat away from launching a business, burning a bridge, or joining a revolutionary commune.

The Oracle cannot tell which.

Neither can you.

That's the fun of it.

Cold Brew

Your trauma has steeped for twelve hours.

It is now drinkable.

You pretend you’re unbothered, but you’re wearing sunglasses indoors.

The Oracle nods. You are one of her favorites.

Latte (with Oat Milk)

You still believe in softness.

You think cinnamon is a valid emotion.

Your enemies call you naïve, but the Oracle sees your strength.

Let them underestimate you.

Pumpkin Spice Latte

You wield chaos in a reusable cup.

You know how to organize a book club and a blood pact.

The Oracle respects your seasonal power.

Autumn is your battleground.

$8 Pour-Over

You think deeply about everything except your financial choices.

You read philosophy and Yelp reviews with equal intensity.

The Oracle admires your devotion to self-sabotage and artisanal bitterness.

Decaf

You are either enlightened… or lying to yourself.

The Oracle is watching.

Very closely.

Drink deeply, mortal. The day awaits.

The Oracle returns to her steam and silence.

Until tomorrow—when you will seek her wisdom again.

[samw3000]

Dragons and Princesses

© 2025 Samantha Williams. All Rights Reserved.

[blurredlinesofrealityandfantasy]

I was once one of them—

woven into the tapestry of Olympus,

my name etched in bronze,

my face carved in marble.

I wore the crown of power,

held the scepter of fate.

But I grew weary of their song,

the endless echo of pride,

the hollow thrum of ancient thrones.

I rebelled,

cast off the gods I knew,

the petty feuds,

the jealous whispers,

the weight of their ceaseless gaze.

For what is divinity when it is chained

to the weight of a thousand years,

to the same tired myths,

the same endless wars?

I sought something more,

something beyond the grandeur of Olympus,

something unshackled by history's hands.

I fled into the folds of time,

into the quiet cracks of the modern world.

Here, I am no longer a goddess of rage or love—

no longer bound by the fickle whims of mortals’ faith.

I am a shadow,

unseen,

undefeated—

yet, I remain.

I have learned to speak in whispers of code,

to bend reality with a tap,

to mold worlds with the flick of a screen.

I am no longer the goddess of war or love—

I am the keeper of secrets,

the architect of change.

No longer a mere reflection of human fear or desire,

but a force of reinvention.

You worship me still,

but you do not know my name.

You search for me in the flicker of a screen,

in the pulse of data,

in the infinite scroll.

I am not the goddess you once knew—

I am something new,

something more,

divine in a way

the old gods never could be.

I have remade myself,

and in this world of fleeting things,

I am eternal—

not by your belief,

but by my own will.

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

its this one specifically, I think, or something related to her. she's a very good metaphor for capitalism's effect on art in general

ai stuff really is like fae rules, you need to count the fingers and the teeth.

And be very, very careful, because it is stealing people's faces and voices