We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations.
What makes me so happy about this is that she isn’t telling you you must love your body or that you are obligated to. She saying you have permission to. And that’s important, because there are a lot of reasons why people have trouble with self-love. But the idea that you aren’t supposed to love your body, that you aren’t allowed to for whatever reason, needs to be crushed. If you can’t love you body right now, if your body causes you pain or disphoria or distress, you aren’t required to love it. But you are ALLOWED to. You are entitled to the chance to make peace with your body, if you ever reach a point where you are ready to. No one else should be trying to stop you.
Sometimes I see or read things, and I didn’t realize that I needed them until they are two GIFs of Nicki Minaj and some amazing commentary that come across my dash and I instantly burst in to tears and feel a weight lifted off my chest.
أسوء من الأرق أن تنام وفي قلبك كلام
You could pretend that Guenever was a sort of man-eating lioncelle herself, or that she was one of those selfish women who insist on ruling everywhere. In fact, this is what she did seem to be to a superficial inspection. She was beautiful, sanguine, hot-tempered, demanding, impulsive, acquisitive, charming - she had all the proper qualities for a man-eater. But the rock on which these easy explanations founder, is that she was not promiscuous. There was never anybody in her life except Lancelot and Arthur. She never ate anybody except these. And even these she did not eat in the full sense of the word. People who have been digested by a man-eating lioncelle tend to become nonentities - to live no life except within the vitals of the devourer. Yet both Arthur and Lancelot, the people whom she apparently devoured, lived full lives, and accomplished things of their own.
She lived in warlike times, when the lives of young people were as short as those of airmen in the twentieth century. In such times, the elderly moralists are content to relax their moral laws a little, in return for being defended. The condemned pilots, with their lust for life and love which is probably to be lost so soon, touch the hearts of young women, or possibly call up an answering bravado. Generosity, courage, honesty, pity, the faculty to look short life in the face - certainly comradeship and tenderness - these qualities may explain why Guenever took Lancelot as well as Arthur. It was courage more than anything else - the courage to take and give from the heart, while there was time. Poets are always urging women to have this kind of courage. She gathered her rose-buds while she might, and the striking thing was that she only gathered two of them, which she kept always, and that those two were the best.
ὁμιλία καὶ ὕπνος μόνοι δείκνυνται οὖσα θνητός.
-translation by classicsenthusiast
"Sex and sleep alone make me conscious that I am mortal."
requested by @ereshkegal
(FYI this is actually a “quote” misleadingly attributed to Alexander the Great, which stems from this section of Plutarch, wherein he states that:
ἔλεγε δὲ μάλιστα συνιέναι θνητὸς ὢν ἐκ τοῦ καθεύδειν καὶ συνουσιάζειν.”
or: “he said that he is most conscious of his mortality when sleeping or having intercourse.”)
In the end I believe scientists are hopeless romantics desperate in love with the idea that the world makes sense.
Scientists have broken hearts and by combining toxic elements and reading the stars, they are able to write poetry.
Can the hungry go on a hunger strike? Non-violence is a piece of theatre. You need an audience. What can you do when you have no audience? People have the right to resist annihilation.
Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again — and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.
There is no greater power on this earth than story. People think boundaries and borders build nations. Nonsense - words do. Beliefs, declarations, constitutions - words. Stories. Myths. Lies. Promises. History.
Fatherhood is a scary thing because as soon as you’ve done it you’ve messed up the kid. You’re only human and you’ll be projecting your own shit on them and putting your own expectations on them and treating them as though they’re a part of you rather than a separate entity. I am absolutely fascinated by fatherhood, though, and have been for a long time. I intend to be the perfect father. I’m sure I’ll fail miserably.
this actually describes my thoughts so well.