The burning tower
- Quinners
- Jul 20
- 2 min read
"You weren’t supposed to survive that fall, and yet here you are.”
There’s a tower that only shows up in dreams after something breaks—after the friend ghosts you, the lover leaves, the job collapses, or you realize your reflection is lying. It’s made of stone you swear you’ve seen before. Its windows are black voids. And it’s always on fire. Always.
But the fire doesn’t burn like fire.
The flames curl like agate—swirling bands of cherry blood and yellow-gold, wrapped in motionless motion. They aren’t moving outward. They’re pulling in.
Like the building is being eaten by memory.
Some people say it’s from tarot. It isn’t. The tarot stole it.
This isn’t symbolic. It’s topographical. If you’ve ever tried to map your trauma or climb your own shame spiral, this is the terrain. This is the last structure you lived in before you became who you are now. And it’s burning because it must. You cannot go back. You cannot un-know.
That’s why you get this tattoo.
Not for the aesthetic (though the aesthetic slaps—molten ribbon flames, as if carved from some sacred rock found only at the bottom of your worst year).
Not for the mystery (though yes, everyone will ask).
But because when the fire eats the tower, it doesn’t consume you—it releases you.
People who get this piece are always strange. Always mid-transition. Some of them are divorcing their past lives. Some are finally starting the book, leaving the town, cutting off the parasite. They come in shaking, and leave glowing.
It looks good on forearms. On ribs. Over hearts. Anywhere you’ve ever stored the blueprint of what hurt you. Anywhere you want to mark the line between who you were and who made it out.
💬 Want it?
Say you saw the tower.
Say you dreamed of fire that didn’t move right.
Say the agate cracked open and whispered something you can’t unhear.
🧠 I’ll know what you mean.
📅 Book your session.
This design is open—for now. But like all crumbling towers, its time is limited.
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