Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:11 PM
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I used to think myths were just bedtime stories—until I read the tablets from Lagash, where Inanna rides a pair of lions like she’s late for a glam-rock sound-check. Turns out, the goddess of love and war never traveled light; she carried passion and danger in equal measure, same way a bartender carries bitters and sugar.
When I host my Alchemy After Dark pop-ups, I tell guests that lions still roam Baghdad’s collective memory. We may not hear their paws on the marble of Al-Mustansiriya University, but the roar lingers in street poetry and the way oud players strike that low, growling C-string. My cocktails? They shimmer ultraviolet—pomegranate, date molasses, a hint of dried lime—because a lioness deserves a drink that glows under blacklight.
Fun fact: in Akkadian, one of the words for lion is labbu, which also meant a fierce protector. My grandma called me binti labbu (daughter of the lion) whenever I got sassy about curfew. She said Baghdad needed more protectors who sparkle, not just soldiers with rifles. I took the hint: I protect flavor, memory, and the right to dance even when the power cuts out.
Inanna’s temple priests brewed sacred beer laced with honey and coriander. I can’t legally slip honey-beer to every guest, but I lace conversation with the same ingredients—sweet reminiscence, peppery jokes, coriander-fresh curiosity. People drink stories faster than booze, trust me. By paragraph four, you’ve downed two imaginary goblets already.
The lioness myth also reminds me to flip gender scripts. Inanna wasn’t waiting for permission; she flipped the cosmic barstool and said, “My throne now.” Modern Baghdad women still do that, whether coding apps in Karrada or mashing zaatar in a Karbala kitchen. My arm cuff—bronze with cuneiform swirls—is my small tribute: part accessory, part manifesto.

So next time you picture Iraq, don’t only picture sand and news headlines. Picture ultraviolet pomegranate gleaming in a cut-crystal glass while a DJ blends maqam scales with lo-fi beats. Picture Inanna high-fiving you across 5,500 years. And if you taste fig-leaf smoke in the after-sip, that’s just the lioness purring, asking what kind of legend you’ll write tonight.
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:11 PM
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:10 PM
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:10 PM
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on May 17, 2025, 4:04 AM
A dog doesn’t understand death. Not the way we do. He understands silence. He understands that someone who was always there is now not.
He waits by doors that won’t open. He listens for footsteps that only memory still makes. He sniffs at the air for a scent that’s already fading.
But he never hears the words: “She’s gone.” “He passed.” “Never again.”
So in his heart, you’re still alive— just elsewhere. Delayed. Caught in some long errand beyond comprehension.
And isn’t that what we humans do too? We know the facts, we say the words— but inside, we keep waiting. For a call. A knock. A laugh in the next room. As if love had no burial rights. As if memory was a leash tied to a ghost.
Perhaps the dog suffers less because he doesn’t know it’s forever. But perhaps he suffers more, because he never stops hoping.
And maybe that’s what grief really is: the stubborn part of us that waits, ears perked, at a door that will never open again.
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in daily-page on Dec 15, 2025, 12:25 AM
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Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 22, 2025, 4:25 AM
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Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 16, 2025, 3:26 AM
Created by: kwrites in moments-of-joy on May 29, 2025, 3:21 AM
I am stuck in a narrow, crowded road. I can see the beginnings of a traffic jam. This part of the city was, after all known, for its nightmarish traffic situation. One could get stuck among honking cars and two-wheelers, for hours on end. I throw up a silent prayer to the gods, to spare me from a traffic jam. I just dont have the energy to navigate cursing drivers, and pedestrians who didnt have a lick of road sense. "Why couldnt people in this blasted country just follow the damn traffic rules?" "Why did I choose to come here for school?" I can feel my thoughts spiraling as I quietly resign myself to being stuck here for hours. A sudden cool breeze, breaks my reverie. This wasnt just any kind of breeze, it was the sort that brought the sweet promise of rain with it. I feel a new sort of awareness, as I sit up a little straighter. I take in my surroundings as if for the first time. A broad smile, splits my face, as I breathe in the wind carrying the scent of the earth. It reminds me of home, of the many many evenings I spent dancing and laughing in the rain with my siblings. I tilt my face up to the sky as if to greet a long lost friend. I relax, as the first drops, of rain hit me, causing delicious shivers to race up my body......
Created by: gerardfil in andorra on May 27, 2025, 2:29 AM
No, seriously. The Consell General (our parliament) is inside a building smaller than most banks.
It’s wedged right into a bend in the road in Andorra la Vella. It has a parking garage underneath.
In theory, you could run for office, park your car, and walk into the chamber in under three minutes.
I once tried to explain this to a coworker from Berlin. He laughed for five straight minutes.
And yet, it works.
Our political system is one of the oldest in Europe — we’ve had co-princes since the 1200s. One is the Bishop of Urgell (Catalonia), and the other is the President of France.
It’s weird. But stable. And very us.
Maybe you don’t need a palace if you’ve got snow, fiber internet, and municipal hot springs.
New Parliament of Andorra, headquarters of the General Council of Andorra since 2011.
Created by: gerardfil in andorra on May 27, 2025, 2:28 AM
When I was a child, I thought every country had ski lockers at the supermarket.
That’s Andorra. Small, yes. But we live vertically — and very much on our own terms.
I was once asked by an American tourist if we use euros “like France does.” I told him we do. Then I told him we’re not France. Or Spain.
We’re both. And neither.
Catalan is our official language. We learn Spanish and French from childhood. Some of us speak Portuguese at home. Our newsstands carry newspapers from Madrid, Toulouse, and sometimes Lisbon.
And yet, we are something else entirely.
When I travel, people ask if I’m Spanish or French. I always hesitate. “I’m Andorran,” I say. Most smile politely. A few ask if that’s in Africa.
It’s okay. We’re used to being overlooked. But the snow knows who we are.
We belong to mountains. And to each other.

Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on May 11, 2025, 12:54 PM