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I am back.

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Scorpio: Why Does Everything Always Happen So Much

Whenever a Scorpio feels something, anything, it hurts. 

Think of the strange, compelling, almost-frightening pleasure-pain of sex. It hurts, but it’s good, but it’s too much. You want it to stop. You never want it to end. You feel like it could kill you; you think you might die without it. 

Dramatic? Yes.

But it’s not an exaggeration. 

That’s what emotion is to a Scorpio. It’s choking, burning, drowning everything. Happiness, sorrow, love, anger, fear- it’s always Too Fucking Much. Life, for a Scorpio who as not yet learned to control emotions, is an intense, interesting sort of hell. 

Cancer is so weak that a gentle breeze might as well be a hurricane. Pisces actively seeks out or creates excessive emotions to deal with boredom.

Scorpio is a different story. This is a sign that can know, accept, and even embrace powerful emotions, despite being strong and without actively seeking such experiences. 

This is the root of Scorpio’s secrecy: they don’t want anyone else to know how much every little thing, good or bad, hurts. They’re frightened by how intensely they can focus, how long they can obsess, how deeply they feel. If you knew, you’d be frightened too. 

They feel too much, and they also see everything. 

Say a wife is cheating on her husband, has been for some time, but no one, including the husband, notices. An evolved Scorpio can see, with a single glance, exactly what is happening and why. A mature Scorpio knows that it’s best to let them figure it out themselves. 

It can take people years to see what is painfully obvious to a Scorpio in an instant, which is another reason Scorpios prefer to keep quiet: they’re afraid they’re wrong. They feel like they’re crazy for seeing what no one else can. Even if they speak out and are right, people may deny the truth and stick to more comfortable lies. 

So… There you have it. 

For Scorpios, Everything Always Happens So Much and it is Literally The Fucking Worst. Please try to understand.

[also applies to pluto dominants; can apply to anyone with significant scorpio energy in the natal chart; does not necessarily apply to all scorpios, because a good number shut that part of themselves away and refuse to/can’t access it.]

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@mohtarma217 @cheezbot 

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Freya Was Jacked

So there’s this story in Norse mythology, Þrymskviða. Compressed down, it goes like this: A Jotun steal Thor’s hammer Mjolnir and says he’ll only give it back if he’s given Freyja to marry, as she is the most beautiful goddess in all of existence. The gods argue over what to do for a while before Heimdall suggests they stick a bridal veil on Thor, says he’s Freyja, and pretend they’re giving Freyja (Thor) to the Jotun to marry so Thor can get close enough to the Jotun to steal Mjolnir back. 

Now typically when people talk about this story, it’s with an element of disbelieving comedy. “Oh my god, who would believe Thor was a woman, let alone Freyja, the most beautiful goddess in the world?” 

But I propose a different way to look at the story. 

See, different cultures have different beauty standards. Modern western beauty standards may be a delicate hourglass supermodel, but that’s not always been the case. Greece, for instance, depicted Aphrodite like this: 

Yeah. A Greek sculptor was told “sculpt the goddess of beauty” and they thought “alright, fat rolls, that’s where beauty is at, let’s do this”. And everybody else apparently agreed with them, because up went the statue. Beauty is a malleable concept is what I’m getting at. 

Now this is where it becomes relevant that Freyja is not just the goddess of love, sex, and beauty. She’s also the goddess of war. And the righteous dead. Goddess of war in the same Viking warrior culture that gave us shield maidens, women who wielded seven fucking kilogram (15 lbs) shields in combat. 

Sooooo … when the Norse storytellers said, “This is Freyja, goddess of war and the righteous dead, who rode giant murder cats into battle, she is the most beautiful goddess in the world”, I’m guessing they weren’t thinking of her as some willowy waif. No, I’m guessing they probably thought more along the lines of:

190 cm (6′3″), broad shoulders, built like a brick shithouse, with a jawline like whoa, and fully capable of murdering everything in her path.

Put in that context, the story of Thor dressing up as Freyja sounds less like a punchline about “how could anyone ever mistake Thor in a veil for Freyja?” and becomes more a case of “ohhhhhhhhhhh, no wonder all the gods thought this plan would work”. 

It did, by the way. The plan totally worked. 

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one of my all time favorite poems

You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. Come with me, then, And we’ll leave it far and far away— (Only you and I, understand!) You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows, And, if you like, The perfect places of Sleep. Ah, come with me! I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, That floats forever and a day; I’ll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, Until I find the Only Flower, Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea. e.e. cummings

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when is someone finally going to declare their love for me by gifting me an intricately decorated hair comb

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I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you,

the red on my lips isn’t wine.

Daniella Michalleni on Persephone

Post 3/6

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© Fazlulloh Shamit Musavi

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““I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word home means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bedroom when you were eight. See, I want to know the first time you felt the weight of hate, and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms or would leave your snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name, and if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you to tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. Tell me, knowing I often picture Gandhi at ten years old beating up little boys at school. If you were walking by a chemical plant where smokestacks were filling the sky with dark black clouds would you holler “Poison! Poison! Poison!” really loud or would you whisper “That cloud looks like a fish, and that cloud looks like a fairy!” Do you believe that Mary was really a virgin? Do you believe that Moses really parted the sea? And if you don’t believe in miracles, tell me — how would you explain the miracle of my life to me? See, I wanna know if you believe in any god or if you believe in many gods or better yet what gods believe in you. And for all the times that you’ve knelt before the temple of yourself, have the prayers you asked come true? And if they didn’t, did you feel denied? And if you felt denied, denied by who? I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass. If you ever reach enlightenment will you remember how to laugh? Have you ever been a song? Would you think less of me if I told you I’ve lived my entire life a little off-key? And I’m not nearly as smart as my poetry I just plagiarize the thoughts of the people around me who have learned the wisdom of silence. Do you believe that concrete perpetuates violence? And if you do — I want you to tell me of a meadow where my skateboard will soar. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving, and if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes from other people’s wounds, and if you dream sometimes that this life is just a balloon — that if you wanted to, you could pop, but you never would ‘cause you’d never want it to stop. If a tree fell in the forest and you were the only one there to hear — if its fall to the ground didn’t make a sound, would you panic in fear that you didn’t exist, or would you bask in the bliss of your nothingness? And lastly, let me ask you this: If you and I went for a walk and the entire walk, we didn’t talk — do you think eventually, we’d… kiss? No, wait. That’s asking too much — after all, this is only our first date.””

— Andrea Gibson

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The first time he calls you holy,

You laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.

The second time,

You moan gospel around his fingers between your teeth.

He has always surprised you into surprising yourself.

Because he’s an angel hiding his halo

Behind his back and nothing

Has ever felt so filthy

As plucking the wings from his shoulders–

Undressing his softness one feather at a time.

God, if you’re out there,

If you’re listening,

He fucks like a seraphim,

And there’s no part of scripture that ever prepared you for his hands.

Hands that map a communion

In the cradle of your hips.

Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.

He confesses how long he’s looked for a place to worship and,

Oh,

You put him on his knees.

When he sinks to the floor and moans

Like he cant help himself,

You wonder if the other angels fell so sweet.

He says his prayers between your thighs,

And you dig your heels into the base of his spine

Until he blushes the colour of your filthy tongue.

You will ruin him and he will thank you;

He will say please.

No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,

But you fit over his hips like they were made for you.

You fit, you fit, you fit.

On top of him, you are an ancient God

That only he remembers and he offers up his skin.

And you take it.

Who knew sacrifice was so profane?

And once you’ve taught him how to hold

Your throat in one hand

And your heart in the other,

You will have forgotten every other word,

Except for his name.

- Profane, Ashe Vernon

Tom Hiddleston

(Gifs not mine)

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“You must be drunk always. That is everything. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time that crushes your shoulders and bends you earthward, you must be drunk without respite. But drunk on what? On wine, on poetry, on virtue - take your pick. But be drunk.”

— Charles Baudelaire

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cat’s eye: iron lung, margaret atwood

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“I am afraid to write to her—to receive a letter from her—to see her handwriting would break my heart—even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more than I can bear. (…) If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me.”

— John Keats, from a letter to Charles Brown; Nov. 1, 1820.

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Carla Maria Maggi (Italienne, 1913-2004) - Essayage (1936)

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© Giuseppe Ragazzini ‘Le baiser’

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Danae by Gustav Klimt // Cherry Wine by Hozier