mind breeze

Your eyes are like....

Please use your MOON and RISING signs ~

Aries: the first morning of the spring, fire reflecting through, warmth that melts the ice away gently but fast

Taurus: the first flowers of the year, dawn of the day, beauty of the world, relaxed and gentle, hot tea after work, silent but meaningful like forest

Gemini: the curious eyes of child, reflecting the colorful mind, like the morning breeze, little fairies dancing in the rain

Cancer: strong but full of understanding the complexity of empathy, the bright summer nights, reflection in the surface of the lake

Leo: work of art, bright like sun but understanding like moon, midsummer day and celebrating, sparklers in the water

Virgo: warm cup of coffee in the morning, small but strong flowers, the morning rain, shine of the diamonds and purity of first snow

Libra: the first star of the night, window reflecting you, understanding of the person, slowly burning candles on a winter night, cozy fall days

Scorpio: the moon and the stars of the night, coldness of the winter and heat of the summer, passion of the tiger and understanding of the deep sea

Sagittarius: the adventures of the summer, the sparkles of the fire, meant for understanding the life, snow angels and snowball fights

Capricorn: ambition that goes over the sky, the moon and the universe, warmth of a hug on a winter day, stability of a maple

Aquarius: understanding humanity and everything beyond, dancing in the summer rain, galaxies of the universe

Pisces: looking through the rose glasses, where the worlds top secrets are kept, white clouds of the sky, snowflakes falling from the sky


This memory unfolds
as a ragged birthday card
with a faded photo tucked inside,

Another drifts in the mind
warm summer breeze on skin
and the smell of cookies in an oven,

That memory rose up slowly
with the sensation of being safely
under blankets as a winter storm rages,

But some memories..

Some memories come unbidden


They can’t be blocked
razor blades in my brain
opening wounds filled with sorrow

They refuse to be ignored
once they’ve kicked in the door
they do not leave until they are done

But I won’t describe them to you
because I don’t control how they come
But I decide what they are allowed to say.

“He’s talking about The Wild Hunt. About the Ghost Riders. Imagine a night like this, Kira. In storm clouds just like these, phantom hunters would appear. Riding black horses with blood-red eyes. And wolves and hounds at their side, baying and snarling.”-Noshiko Yukimura, “Creatures of the Night”.

Full Disclosure: Ever since this quote came up in episode 1 of Season 5a, I’ve been patiently waiting for Teen Wolf to close the loop and bring the mythology Wild Hunt into the show. My excitement about the potential in this storyline was heightened when hints were dropped that Parrish could be a Hellhound

And then there was this:

(Photo credit to @deathcabjenny, who also put together a nice reference guide for the Wild Hunt here)

Thanks to a careless extra leaking a script we now know that Stiles will be forgotten (presumably because he’s taken by the Wild Hunt) and the younger generation of the pack will be dealing with their classmates being “marked”. After the first leak, I did a search on mythical creatures who marked their victims and then returned for them later and came upon an Irish Unseelie (dark fairy) creature known as the Dullahan. However, I dismissed it as being too obscure. 

And then today, the call sheet was leaked. And I noticed that a “Ghost Rider” was mentioned, and his weapon was a whip. 

Let me give you that description of the Dullahan, which I have immediately revisited (Source Wikipedia):

“The dullahan is a headless rider, usually on a black horse who carries their own head under one arm. The head’s eyes are small, black, and constantly dart about like flies, while the mouth is constantly in a hideous grin that touches both sides of the head. The flesh of the head is said to have the color and consistency of moldy cheese. The dullahan uses the spine of a human corpse for a whip, and its wagon is adorned with funeral objects… When the dullahan stops riding, that is where a person is due to die. The dullahan calls out the person’s name, at which point the person immediately perishes.

There is no way to bar the road against a dullahan—all locks and gates open to them when they approach. They do not appreciate being watched while on their errands, throwing a basin of blood on those who dare to do so (often a mark that they are among the next to die), or even lashing out the watchers’ eyes with their whips. They are frightened of gold, and even a single gold pin can drive a dullahan away.”

So it’s possible that the Dullahan myth is being merged with the Wild Hunt, or there are many different types of Ghost Riders in the Hunt and the Dullahan is just one of them. The Dullahan could also be a scout for the Wild Hunt and may be marking people whom the rest of the Riders will then pick up. The Ghost Rider is labeled as “The Outlaw”, so maybe he’s gone rogue/in opposition to the Wild Hunt who are coming to hunt him down. 

It probably bears mentioning that Unseelie faeries in general really like to kidnap people and force them to do things (though not necessarily via supernatural compulsion). Oh, and if they took a particular liking to you they might decide to keep you as a pet.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go do a bunch of research on faerie mythology. 

Imagine #11 Carl [Requested]

Daryl’s gruff pledge of refuge was lost amongst the sweltering breeze; mind and heart consumed by the antagonistic realism of this world. In the midst of the zombie apocalypse there were no sanctuaries or safe zones; everyone was fated to die, cursed to revival as a monster. Gravel crunched beneath your combat boot clad feet, Daryl’s delighted words inarticulate as your attention flittered to the scene hidden behind the prison fence. The prison yard had been recreated as farmland; a resourceful wooden fence surrounding a handful of swine, a succulent medley of vegetation, and a proficient water source constructed of scavenged items. A teenager crouched beside a sow; tousled chestnut hair hindering a lucid view of his glacial blue irises, his slender frame astounding you at his height as he straightened his casual posture. Carl Grimes; Daryl’s tone held a sense of fondness and playfulness as he greet the young man, nudging you in the teenager’s direction as he approached with a handsome smile illuminating his features in a manner that felt foreign in this apocalyptic world. Carl Grimes was gorgeous; crystalline sapphire irises that held a hint of mystery and sorrow that made him appear mature, a button nose sprinkled with an adorable handful of freckles, softened facial features that were evolving into those of a man, and a devious smirk on his plush peach lips that lured you in hook line and sinker. The treble in his voice was rich and elicit a hummingbird flutter from the muscle in your chest.

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Hey, how are you?
That kind of day again, huh?

I’m sorry. We’ve been friends for a little and I know that they always try to tear you down.

The sun constantly picking a fight
with your smile to see who is brighter.

The moon stealing your flaws
and swelling up, yeah, it’s full of itself.

The sands of time swishing near the waves
always making its way back into your tears.

The midnight cigarettes that you don’t smoke,
always climbing into your throat.

The hands you never planned to let go,
always holding you at 3 AM.

The soft and ragged whispers on your heart,
they grow more roses than you need.

The stars always too shallow to shine
when we need peace of mind.

The light breeze on a perfect night,
always ruining your thin paper heart.

The sand castles built inside your mind,
I’m sorry it falls apart once you drown.

The keys that stumble home to locked doors,
they still manage to ring your door bells.

The stretching of your smile
always followed by a why.

The stamps on your fingertips,
they mail themselves away.

The first page in every book
spoiling the ending to your story.

The last word in every poem
trying to sound like home.

The awkward conversations stuck
in your heart, but scraping your mind.

The anxiety of not knowing,
they gamble your worries and sorries.

The mindset that love could heal,
but the heartache that love provides.

Hey, how are you?
I know it’s that kind of night again,
but I got you tonight.

—  I know poets that sleep late,
I know poets that sleep early,
but then they have us;
the poets that don’t sleep at all.
Here’s to you and your worries
of things related to home.
For the teacup.
// k.c.