The Gods Are Late

Why Myths Still Matter

This isn’t just about ruins. It’s about how we project our hopes onto legends. How we grow up worshipping gods who were never really divine—just messy, moody, human-scaled stories we couldn’t let go of.

I went to Greece looking for magic.

What I found instead was tragic.

The columns lean like tired elders—

Doric, Ionic, Corinthian—bent in the sun.

Marble grinds against gravel in hollow temples,

where reason once ruled and pigeons now perch.

The streets are cracked and crumbling,

as if Athena walked away mid-project.

She was wisdom and war, all sharp lines and strategy.

Now her temple sleeps beneath a blanket of smog.

The Parthenon slumps like a broken promise,

half-proud, half-fading into the dust.

Apollo’s no better.

Once a healer of light and lyric,

now fully filtered,

humming from some rooftop bar.

Artemis hides off-grid with her bow.

Dionysus throws orgies for one.

Ares wages war in the comment section.

Poseidon’s ghosting us all.

Demeter’s grieving again,

forgetting to water the earth outside her shrine.

Aphrodite still flirts—

but only shows up for the camera.

Hera, goddess of storms and vows,

watches her temples sink without a word,

still loyal to the man with lightning

and no real job or home.

And Zeus—forever in motion.

Every disguise, every bed.

Still the animal. Still the thunder.

Fingerprints on all. Blame on none.

We love them still, maybe because

they were never perfect.

Vain. Brilliant. Unruly.

Just like us—but bigger, louder, unashamed.

Let the ruins rise again, but this time—

make them float.

Let columns defy gravity.

Let pediments shimmer above reproach.

Let them remember what they stood for.

Let the gods try again.

Cracked beauty still matters.

Even the fallen echo.

Because even the divine

should have to grow.