Hi! They're still here. You literally can't get rid of them. They were there the day you were born and they will be there the day you die. They might even be you to begin with.

(( Also adding this over here from a different discussion-

“Here is a story to believe,” she said. “Once we were blobs in the sea, and then fishes, and then lizards and rats and then monkeys, and hundreds of things in between. This hand was once a fin, this hand once had claws! In my human mouth I have the pointy teeth of a wolf and the chisel teeth of a rabbit and the grinding teeth of a cow! Our blood is as salty as the sea we used to live in! When we’re frightened, the hair on our skin stands up, just like it did when we had fur. We are history! Everything we’ve ever been on the way to becoming us, we still are.”

— Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

A quick obituary, if y'all don’t mind.

Keep reading

        Oh, sweetheart! They’re Death! They know everything there is to know, about you or anything else.

Oh man did you eat the whole edible? The whole thing? Yeah that's bad bro. No you're gonna be fine. The horse demons don't like that though. Yeah the evil horse demons with fucked up scary human faces that live in the bathroom at night so they can get people who are too high. Those ones. Yeah they can smell when you're scared.

{ deathxdefied​ }

Trying not to make it obvious she’s staring over at Milo. Eyes flickering back and forth from them to the floor.

It was hard not to look over at them, after all … It was such a mesmerizing, beautiful sight to see.

       As it is, Milo is a touch... distracted at the moment. Still they rub and rub over their eye, glistening wet in the light, turning matte with the touch of fabric, last threads of optic nerve following behind it like streamers. Still the decay festers in their socket, turning the skin angry and inflamed, all but boiling around the open wound and the belching of thickened blood the same consistency and appearance of tar.

       Fickle thing. There’s something wrong with it — Milo does not see, not in the proper way which things with eyes typically conceive of as sight, but rather there is some imperfection in it. Some mass and shape, something rolling around inside... They would like to burst it open and remove what’s ruining their newest picture, but they’d sooner rather push it back to someplace less obvious.

                   Plenty for Poppy to watch and admire. Milo wasn’t going to stop her.

       “Oh!!!” They’re still holding their own eye.

      Pops their eyeball out of its socket and polishes it on the edge of their robe. Don’t mind that they snapped the nerve in one quick move to do so, or that there’s a trickle of old, fetid blood down their face, their eyelids hanging limply. Or that said blood is getting on their robe anyways.

Your body is an ancestor. Your body is an altar to your ancestors. Every one of your cells holds an ancient and anarchic love story. Around 2.7 billion years ago free-living prokaryotes melted into one another to form the mitochondria and organelles of the cells that build our bodies today. All you need to do to honor your ancestors is to roll up like a pill bug, into the innate shape of safety: the fetal position. The curl of your body, then, is an altar not just to the womb that grew you, but to the retroviruses that, 200 million years ago taught mammals how to develop the protein syncytin that creates the synctrophoblast layer of the placenta. Breathe in, slowly, knowing that your breath loops you into the biome of your ecosystem. Every seven to ten years your cells will have turned over, rearticulated by your inhales and exhales, your appetites and proclivity for certain flavors. If you live in a valley, chances are the ancient glacial moraine, the fossils crushed underfoot, the spores from grandmotherly honey fungi, have all entered into and rebuilt the very molecular make up of your bones, your lungs, and even your eyes. Even your lungfuls of exhaust churn you into an ancestor altar for Mesozoic ferns pressurized into the fossil fuels. You are threaded through with fossils. Your microbiome is an ode to bacterial legacies you would not be able to trace with birth certificates and blood lineages. You are the ongoing-ness of the dead. The alembic where they are given breath again. Every decision, every idea, every poem you breathe and live is a resurrection of elements that date back to the birth of this universe itself. Today I realize that due to the miracle of metabolic recycling, it is even possible that my body, somehow, holds the cells of my great-great grandmother. Or your great-great grandmother. Or that I am built from carbon that once intimately orchestrated the flight of a hummingbird or a pterodactyl. Your body is an ecosystem of ancestors. An outcome born not of a single human thread, but a web of relations that ripples outwards into the intimate ocean of deep time.

Your Body is an Ancestor, Sophie Strand

Yves Olade, Belovéd

Hélène Cixous, from The Selected Plays of Hélène Cixous; “Black Sail, White Sail”

Text ID: There’ll be no hymns to our glory. / History has cut our throats.