inexorable time

beauty tips that say “you don’t need to buy x, y, and z products to avoid aging skin, you just need to do x, y, and z behaviors” couldn’t miss the point harder. like true i don’t have to buy some overpriced products but did u know that aging is actually fine?? as well as unavoidable?? and women are told we’re not supposed to let it happen but guess what time marches inexorably on for all of us mortal creatures and your face gets wrinkly 

Meanings Behind the Sign Symbols


               The glyph for Aries represents the face and horns of a ram. Aries is a sign that is known for its initiative, and its innate ability to move with fervor towards its goals. Like a ram charging forward an Aries pursues its target with abandon. The glyph can also be seen as a geyser bursting forth from the ground, or the female reproductive system, which alludes to the creative potential of the sign as well as its position as the first sign, and the baby of the zodiac.


               The glyph for Taurus shows us the head and horns of the bull. Steadfast, stubborn, and sensual the bull is a great parallel to the Taurean nature. Taurus is known for its ability to work tirelessly towards its goals, not budging from the path that they’ve set for themselves. The glyph shows us the crescent of the mind atop the circle of the spirit, which reflects Taurus’ ability to push forward with their whole beings to attain the security and comfort that they desire.


               Gemini is the sign of the twins, and in its glyph we can see the duality that is at the very core of its symbolism. Gemini sees the duality of all things, that of light and darkness, right and wrong, male and female then incorporates these dual natures into the same being. The glyph is the Roman numeral for two, and yet at the same time it can be seen as a tunnel or a doorway. Gemini synthesizes information, pulling it in, processing it, and then disseminating it to others. The Geminian works as a conduit for knowledge and its role in the zodiac is that of the informant.


               The glyph for Cancer shows us the claws of the crab. With its hard protective shell, home beneath the waves, and propensity to cling to its prey and possessions the crab is an apt metaphor for the watery Cancer. Crabs live their lives in the endless ebb and flow of the ocean, and for Cancer it is no different. They feel the endless tides of their emotions and instinctively feel the ups and downs in all things. The glyph is also reminiscent of the earth and moon, circling each other in their eternal dance through the cosmos. We’re also shown a mother’s breasts, which are ruled by the sign as well as their function of nourishment.


               Here we see the head, mane, and swooping tail of the lion. Leo reflects much of its qualities, with the females being aggressively enterprising and fiercely loyal, and the males being protective and deeply prideful. In this glyph we again see the circle of spirit, the sun, and a tendril that reaches out projecting its power and influence. A Leo similarly projects their innermost power and warmth in order to attract attention and admiration from those around them.


               The “M” of Virgo shows its ties to the sign of Scorpio. Indeed at one time the two were considered to be one and the same, representing the processes of birth and death and their inexorable link. At some time in the past the two were split, with the sign of Libra occupying the space between, representing the harmony between the two. The tail of Virgo’s M is turned inward becoming the female genitalia and being representative of the fertility and purity of the sign.


               The glyph for Libra is that of the setting sun. It is the twilight before the darkness, the time of day where light and darkness exist in equal proportions, appropriate for the balance that is representative of this sign. Libra seeks harmony in its relationships with those around it and has an innate ability to find balance in opposing forces. The glyph is also the Mirror of Venus, resting atop a shelf. This alludes to the planetary ruler of the sign as well as Libra’s association with the 7th House, which is sometimes called the House of Mirrors.


               The glyph for Scorpio shows its ties to Virgo, but instead of its tail pulling in it thrusts outward. This shows how the Scorpion’s will and drive is turned to power and the ability to change the world around it. Scorpio is a sign known for its great initiative and ambition as well as its great capacity for change and transformation.


               The glyph is an arrow, ready to fire from the bow of our fiery archer. The arrow symbolizes the far-reaching search for knowledge that is inherent in this sign. Sagittarius wants to push the boundaries of human knowledge and experience and push their minds and bodies forward with abandon towards this goal.


               The glyph gives us a silhouette. It is that of a creature that is half mountain-goat, and half fish. The mermaid has climbed out of the primordial nurturing waters to climb the mountain of success and accomplishment. It’s important to recognize this dual nature in Capricorn. The goat can no more escape where he came from than he can the drive that propels him forward. There will forever be a connection back to the home and indeed what is built in life serves to provide sustenance and security for it.


               The glyph for Aquarius shows us waves, it is multi-faceted in its nature now more than ever. It is the ever-permeating waves of electromagnetism and energy that surround us. It is the radio waves encoded with information as well as the sound waves that carry a human voice to all ears that listen. This is the “water” that is poured forth from Aquarian amphora. It is the free and ever present information that will lead to an even more enlightened future.


               Two fish are swimming in opposite directions, but cannot escape one another because of the chains that bind them. This represents the dual-nature of the Piscean individual. One fish swims upwards toward divinity. It wishes to return home and be one with its source. The other fish swims downwards toward the material realm. There is much that is unfinished and the weight of the world is constant in the emotional ties that bind.  Pisces seeks to use this connection to higher spirituality to work as a conduit for healing. They take on the pain and suffering of others in an attempt to soothe them.

tumblr is ten.

when tumblr started, supernatural was in its second season and david tennant was the doctor. homestuck and sherlock did not exist. george w. bush was president and donald trump was the host of the apprentice. massachusetts was the only state to have same-sex marriage and netflix’s core business model was mailing dvds to people. smartphones were blackberries and they were used by businessmen. twitter was less than a year old, instagram and snapchat didn’t exist, and myspace and digg were vital components of the social media ecosystem. fandom lived on livejournal, “social justice warrior” was a compliment and the word mansplain did not exist.

it’s been a long, strange ten years. i wish this hellsite a happy birthday, and many long, strange years to come.

anonymous asked:

angsty scenario with oikawa and his fem s/o with the prompt “I could have spent all this time practicing instead of wasting it by being with you.” ending with fluff ? or like a happy ending

I’m not sure if this turned out a happy ending or not, but I tried to make it as close to a hopeful sort of ending as I could. Sorry for the wait, and I hope you like it.

How was one supposed to feel, after hearing something like that?

Nobody had ever prepared you for this; not a single script in a thousand novels that drifted through time or slices of everyday lives in a tiny apartment could pull out the excruciating sense of deflation in places where it shouldn’t be deflating at all. Your parents, no matter how unhappy, had never bothered to share with you the details of ‘commitment’. ‘Romance’ isn’t a syllabus they provide at school. Vicarious learning can only be poor imitation when poets write of wilted roses, lost sunsets and the chill winter breeze.

There’s a meter-long needle, thin as wire, its tip worthy of Achilles, that nudges through the small puncture through your chest. Each breath nudges it out of place, and re-lodges itself somewhere deeper.

Oikawa’s face is stoic, the firm lines across his brows forced together in an expression unfamiliar with pity and second chances.

It still takes you too long to ask the right question; his fighting face directed point blank at your eyes, and your chest begins to writhe, incapable of inuring itself to a suffering unknown.

You ask a stupid question. You know it’s stupid from how Oikawa’s mouth twists, a nonverbal spit at your feet.

“How am I supposed to feel when you say that?” 

You regret it before you even ask it, but you think you’d regret it more if you wrote it down instead and burned it later.

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xoxfiles  asked:

Scully loves wearing Mulder's shirts, especially the one she never gave back in the first year of their partnership ... but now 5 years later, it's falling apart. .... Here you go, do your magic :-) xo

There is the Tarkhan dress, Egyptian linen, knife-pleated sleeves, six thousand years old. There is a woman from Jutland, strangled and heaved into the peat, her blackened body still wrapped in soft, perfect wool. There is a sage-gray cotton t-shirt from the Gap, size XL. 

Although she’s washed it countless times, she swears it still smells like him, like the libraries at Oxford, like sleepless nights in Alexandria. There’s a faint, stubborn bloodstain on the fraying collar, a remnant of cancer. A tear near the hem, courtesy of a temperamental Pomeranian. The stitching on the shoulder is unraveling, and in places, the fabric is as thin and translucent as gauze. She has taken to wearing it less and less, rationing the guilty pleasure of it like sugar in wartime.

It was Oregon, in 1993. Her first foray into fieldwork, and the most alive she’d ever felt. Fox Mulder was a wolf of a man, all wilderness and poetry, strange and mournful and gorgeous. She couldn’t pin down the colour of his eyes. 

She pretended to forget her pajamas. He tossed her one of his running shirts and a crooked grin. What she’d really wanted was his skin on hers, his hot breath, his long fingers. But there were rules. 

Tonight is one of those lonely nights where she’ll bring this shirt out, press her face into the slackening weave, and wonder how much longer it will last. How much longer she will, before this monumental thing between them comes to a head. 

She pulls it on, crawls into bed, and hits ‘1′ on her speed dial. His voice is temple linen on the line. 

I saw the Huldremose Woman in Copenhagen a few years back. Man, if ever there was a memento mori, if ever there was a humbling and beautiful face of death, a reminder of the slow and inexorable march of time, she is it.

The museum was almost empty that day. They’ve got her in a small, dark room, backlit by a two-panelled wall painted like a moody winter forest. There’s a bench beside her display case, and I sat with her for a long while, bewitched by the texture of her skin, her sweet, charcoal-coloured toes. She looked so cozy, swaddled in her scarf and cape, so small, so real. I wanted to unfurl one of her hands and hold it. 

Ways Elves are Not Like Us.

Time doesn’t work the same for them.  They return from death.  They can walk in memory and it’s as clear to them as sight.  They speak to animals, they don’t need saddles, they can sleep and run at the same time, they can live in trees: they woke them from their sleep.  They make lamps that never die, catch starlight in a glass, raise a river in defence. Their apples and bread, even in Exile, are such that Sam Gamgee has never tasted anything like it.  

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Campaign Prompt:

The light is failing.

Not in a philosophical or metaphorical sense, not like good versus evil or hope versus despair, but in a most horrifying and terribly literal sense: The light is failing.

Each day, the light from the sun grows dimmer. Each time a lantern is lit, its light shines a little shorter. Shadows grow longer, nights grow colder. Even magical illumination seems to be losing its luminance. The world is marching inexorably towards a time of utter and complete darkness, and none can explain why.

Some are taking this in stride, namely the races possessed of greater vision than humankind (the elves are worried, the dwarves are scarcely concerned save for the growing lack of warmth, etc.), and the division of response is increasingly threatening to explode into a political division.

The party is conscripted by a very panicked council of philosophers to seek out the cause of this seeming apocalypse and, most importantly, discover if it can be reversed.

I really need older folks to stop telling younger folks to “enjoy it while it lasts.” I don’t care what “it” is; no one’s gonna take this Sage Adult Wisdom and say “Gee Debra, you’re right! I should go on a spontaneous hike this weekend to embrace my youthful energy! I’m so glad my knees still work!” 

At most they’re gonna think “shit, I’m barely making it as is, and one day I’ll have less energy? what will I no longer be able to do?? what should I be doing right now so I don’t one day regret not doing it??” That’s so much unnecessary stress! No one, especially young folks, should find themselves stressed about the inexorable passage of time. 

Let young folks take their youth for granted. Sure, maybe in their sixties they’ll find themselves occasionally thinking “ah damn, I wish I’d done [thing] when I was younger.” But that’s a hell of a lot better than spending decades worrying about what they might one day regret.

take of the day: the share of China’s GDP dedicated to suppressing dissent and maintaining party supremacy will rise inexorably over time, guaranteeing the US continued global dominance for the foreseeable future.

arguably the long term success of America rests on the fact that it’s population – for all their stout talk of rebellion and individual liberties – is cheap to buy off, and the American system for manufacturing consent scales much better than that of other nations.


It was the Incoming Philosophical Bullshit position, and Jin would recognize it anywhere. “The kids think I’m a grump,” Namjoon said. “I’m not a grump, right? I’m just… tired. Beaten down by the inexorable passage of time.” “It would help if you slept at night.”

inspired by the amazing beta tau sigma by @uziregar
Black Butterfly- 1

Next –>

Chapter 1- Contracts

Eleven thirty seven.

In childhood all the clocks had been analogue, and there was something comforting about that.  Watching the slow passage of time, knowing without a doubt it was moving inexorably towards the time of freedom.  It could make seconds feel like forever, but you still knew they were passing by.

Now, though, trapped in black and artificial white light each minute froze until the next overtook it. Hanging above the fridge cases, reminding her that each second could be an eternity.  Nothing passing, left hoping for the mercy of time itself.  Would a minute pass?  Would it not?

There would be no way to tell until it did.  She could be eternally stuck at eleven thirty seven, a purgatorial time.  A nonsense time.

“I hate digital clocks,” she remarked, drumming fingers against her cheek.

The voice in her head didn’t say anything.


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the inexorable tick of borrowed time - triplesalto - Doctor Who (2005) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/River Song, Twelfth Doctor/River Song
Characters: Thirteenth Doctor, River Song, Twelfth Doctor
Additional Tags: Fix-It, Timey-Wimey, Will Inevitably Be Jossed

Perhaps it was time, the Doctor thought, looking down at the book she still held. She wore a new face now, one that River would never see. Perhaps it was time to read River’s diary at last.

“Let no bell toll!–lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, 

Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth.”

The lines on the page blurred; Guy’s voice caught; he couldn’t finish. A gentle hand took him by the elbow, led him past the casket to his seat. Other hands patted him consolingly as he bent forward and gave in to quiet sobs.

The service continued toward its inevitable conclusion. Family members and friends came forward and spoke, but Guy paid them scant attention. He just wanted it to be over, to place her remains in their final resting place so her soul could ascend. And then, for him, one last duty to perform.

His mind wandered. He longed to be free of the details, the many arrangements. It had perforce been a simple service, but he’d done his best to make it tasteful. She would have appreciated that. He hoped she would have. She would have approved of the dress, at least. It was the sight of her wearing it, beautiful even now as she lay in the casket, that had been his undoing at the pulpit.

There had been some raised eyebrows when he insisted she be buried in it, especially from the few who had been in on the secret of its procuring. It had been worn by a famous actress on the other side of the Atlantic in her most iconic role, and had cost him a small fortune, then a smaller but still significant sum to enlist the city’s dressmaker in deceiving his bride-to-be as to its origins. He’d planned to reveal the truth to her on their wedding night. She would have appreciated the joke. He hoped she would have.

Something intruded on Guy’s thoughts. A stranger had stepped to the pulpit. He was small of stature, dark-haired. There was something odd about his clothes; the coat and vest appeared to be well-tailored, even expensive, but they were ridiculously out of fashion. The tie, for example, was outlandishly long and narrow.

An eccentric, thought Guy. Please let him not mar the proceedings. This day has been difficult enough already.

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kickingshoes  asked:

I wish you'd write a fic where, to save Len, Mick must find his soul/heart/presence in the void the Oculus left (somewhere in the wreckage of all the shattered timelines) and bring it back. AKA a coldwave Orpheus and Eurydice AU

sooooo this got away from me a bit

Fic: Sailor’s Sorrow (AO3 Link)
Fandom: Flash, DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, Literary Allusions Galore
Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Sailors tell the same tales everywhere you go.

Sometimes, they tell you how to bring someone home.

(an Orpheus and Eurydice retelling - and a bit more besides)


Sailors tell the same tales everywhere you go.

Different languages, different cultures, different people, but in the end it always comes down to them and the sea: stories of danger, stories of wonder, stories of strange things you can’t even begin to imagine.

Mick Rory was born on land, as far away from a coast as you could go in his continent.

Kronos was born to the sea.

The Time Masters belittle it when they call her the Time-Stream, their pathetic and futile attempts to make it less than it is, to make it something they can understand, something they can master.

She is no mere stream: she is Oceanus and Tethys, Varuna and Varuni, Anahita and Aegir and Ryūjin and Idliragijenget, all of them together, the great Tiamet who blankets the world entire. She is the Many-Named, the Inexorable, the Endless, Time in all its forms: all oceans come from her, and she is both the greatest of them all, and yet beyond them. She is the slow, rolling wave, the quiet calm, the swiftly rushing current that carries the many-mirrored universe ever forward in her hands, gentle and rough in turn, and she had no beginning but is in herself the whole of creation entire.

And, like all seas, there are those who sail her, and their stories.

It’s on a mission for the Waverider when he first hears of it.

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