love with tragedy

ET TU, BOOTAY⁉️⁉️ The RIDES 💯💯💯 👀👀👀 of March 📅📅 has CUM 💦💦💦💦👉👌 get ready to roman BUST A NUT‼️‼️ 💥💥🌰🌰🌰 Best wishes to all you SENATE SLUTS 👅🌽👅🌽 doesn't matter if you're a plebeian 🏚🏚🏚💸💸 or PUSSYtrician 😼😼😼🤑🤑🤑 because DADDY 👅👨👅👨 Brutus is the DICKtator 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆 we all deserve 👄👄 just like juliASS 🍑😩🍑😩🍑 caesar we're gonna get stabbed 🔪 🍌🔪🍌 2️⃣3️⃣ times in the BACK 🌽🌽🌽🍑🍑🍑 tonight. send this to 1️⃣5️⃣ of your BEST 😏😏😏 Senate Sluts 🏛🏛🏛👉👌get 5️⃣ back and you're a BACK 🍑🍑 STABBER 🔪🌽🔪🌽🔪 get 1️⃣0️⃣ back and you're a citizen of the roman repubLICK 👅👄👅👄👅 get 1️⃣5️⃣ back and you're a glaDICKator 🍌🍌🍆🍆🏟🏟🏟

The Oracle and the King should stand together always…for it is they who safeguard our world. (insp)

Keep being yourselves 

Keep supporting each other 

Keep loving 

Keep being strong

Keep being PROUD 

I didn’t know what I was trying to find by reading your text messages again.
—  Maybe I was lost in translating your words. Hoping that there would be something I could hold on to. 

She knew it would be strange and lonely to study abroad. She knew she’d feel lost, bewildered. It even had a name - culture shock. Like something benign, almost. Like jumping into a cold stream on a hot day, her mother said, it almost blanks your mind out to start with, but if you tough it out and stay in it, you adjust.

But she didn’t adjust, was the thing. It wasn’t just the distance, staying up late or getting up early to put fuzzy, stuttering skype calls through to her family, writing letters and postcards when that stopped working so well. It wasn’t the differences in language, the big and small adjustments she had to make for culture. (Why did Americans have to smile so wide, talk so loud?)

The place was weird was the thing. There were a thousand better words maybe - unsettling, abnormal, offset - but it all just boiled down to weird.

Home - England - could be weird too, but that was home weird, a right and natural weird. A weird of small tree copses and unloved council estates, of dark shadows traipsing the motorways and black dogs in the fog. She knew that magic. She’d tasted it already, knew the poisoned honey taste of it on her tongue. Merlin and Arthur sleeping until a prophesised time of great need, The Beast of Bodmin roaming wild, the sun behind the stones at Avebury.

Oh, she saw them, the gentry of Elsewhere University, she saw them in shadows and from the corners of her eyes and reflected in smooth surfaces. She knew them for legend and myth, she knew them - but she didn’t know them, either. They were different here, like the people were. She avoided eye contact, and never listened to the music from the lake no matter how beautiful it was, and when that pretty couple at the bar asked her home she didn’t go, because they smelled like chamomile flowers and poppies and blood.

It might have been fun, though.

She got fewer and fewer responses to her letters. Skype didn’t work at all any more. She made no friends, and none of her teachers remembered her name for more than three minutes. (she counted, on a stopwatch.)

She was disappearing, bit by bit from life, and no-one would care, no-one would remember. Nothing left of her.

She thought, in sharp jagged moments, of forcing some kind of remembrance. Of some kind of destructive public display - But she didn’t want to hurt herself, didn’t want to bring herself back into the world through destroying herself.

There was another option, her reflection said to her, when she looked into it too long. You’re vanishing anyway, what does it matter? It’s beautiful, you know, it’s beautiful.

She spent days, weeks, centuries in her room, letting the dust gather over her, hands pressed to her face. Or maybe it was just days, and there was no dust.

Once, as a child, she’d had a friend who wasn’t there. An invisible friend, as so many children do, only - only - she knew. She knew the way magic felt on her skin, tangled up in her heart. She’d never even known she missed it so intently, like some organ in her that had been torn out and only now started aching.

It wasn’t so hard, in the end, to make the choice. To walk out on a cold clear night, when the moon was a thin crescent, and to say Yes.


And in the end it got boiled down, reduced to a new legend. The international student who couldn’t handle the change any more, who got stressed and gave herself away.

No-one even remembers her name.