𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟷𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟸 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
Misplaced Lens Cap
will byers stan first human second

titsay
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Stranger Things
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Xuebing Du
wallacepolsom
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
macklin celebrini has autism

tannertan36
Cosmic Funnies
Mike Driver
Sade Olutola

oozey mess
ojovivo
The Bowery Presents
we're not kids anymore.

#extradirty
almost home
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Guatemala
seen from Bangladesh

seen from Venezuela
seen from Serbia
seen from Ecuador
seen from United States

seen from Australia
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
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seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
@appointmentwithmryeats
𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟷𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟸 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
«To every creature that has been judged before it was ever truly known.»
Why the Hyena, the Misunderstood One? People sometimes ask me why the hyena is my favorite animal. The easy answer would be admiration. Yes, I admire her intelligence. I admire her resilience, her complex social life, the incredible strength of her jaws, and her remarkable ability to adapt. I also admire the essential role she plays in Africa's ecosystems. But that's not the real reason. What moves me about the hyena is much harder to explain. She's an animal that has never tried to win humanity's affection. She doesn't have the lion's majesty, the leopard's elegance, or the cheetah's breathtaking beauty. Her appearance is unusual, her gait is awkward to some, and her voice is unlike anything else in the animal kingdom.
For centuries, that alone has been enough for people to assume the worst about her. We built her reputation long before we ever tried to understand her. And yet, when you take the time to truly observe her, an entirely different reality begins to emerge. You discover a devoted mother. A society of astonishing complexity. Unshakable loyalty to her clan. A remarkably intelligent animal. One that is indispensable to the balance of the African savanna. So I can't help but wonder... How many beings, human or otherwise, have been judged the very same way? How many still carry a reputation that was never truly theirs? The hyena has taught me that there can be an enormous distance between the stories we tell about someone... and who they really are. She has also taught me that an animal doesn't have to be beautiful to be admirable. It doesn't have to be loved to be essential. And that there is a quiet kind of dignity in those who simply continue being themselves, despite the stories the world insists on telling about them.
Ancient peoples sometimes saw the hyena as a guardian of thresholds, a creature that walked between worlds. Science, meanwhile, recognizes one of Africa's most intelligent and socially sophisticated mammals. I've never felt the need to choose between those two perspectives.
Myths tell the story of our fascination. Science tells the story of who she truly is. And somewhere between the two stands an animal whose richness we are only beginning to understand.
Perhaps the hyena's greatest mystery isn't her laugh, nor the legends that surround her. Perhaps it's our difficulty accepting that something can be unsettling, indispensable, powerful, and deeply misunderstood all at once. To me, the hyena is neither a monster nor a symbol. She is simply a hyena. And that alone is enough to make her one of the most fascinating animals on this planet.
---
As for me... I'll keep imagining that somewhere in Africa, night has already fallen. The hyenas have emerged from their dens. They know nothing of the stories humans have told about them. They're simply doing what they've done for millions of years... Living.
«Sometimes we only recognize a being's true worth once we stop seeing them through the fears we've projected onto them.»
🌒🤍
Forugh Farrokhzad, from Let Us Believe In the Beginning of the Cold Season; "It Is Only the Voice that Remains,"
“This is how we heal. I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms will bandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book. I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. I will write novels to the scar on your nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you.”
— Clementine von Radics, from “Mouthful of Forevers”, Mouthful of Forevers (Andrew McMeel, 2015)
I wish there was a cat here, I could do with some company.
— Sylvia Townsend Warner, from “A Speaker from London,” Selected Stories (Viking, 1988)
Love transcends physical presence. Even when two souls part, they continue to find each other in memories, in fleeting thoughts, in art, in nature, and perhaps in forms that exist beyond this lifetime...
Federico García Lorca, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Federico García Lorca
To die as much as necessary. […] To grow back as much as needed.
WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA — Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts: Seventy Poems by Wislawa Szymborska, transl. by Magnus J. Krynski & Robert A. Maguire, (1981)
Clarice Lispector, from a letter in translation to Tania Kauffman, featured in All Letters of Clarice Lispector
I write to you to tell you that you don’t stop being present, close by, that you accompany me everywhere I go...
Paul Celan, in a letter to Gisele Celan-Lestrange, from Paul Celan: Selections
We waited and waited. All of us. Didn't the shrink know that waiting was one of the things that drove people crazy? People waited all their lives. They waited to live, they waited to die. They waited in line to buy toilet paper. They waited in line for money. And if they didn't have any money they waited in longer lines. You waited to go to sleep and then you waited to awaken. You waited to get married and you waited to get divorced. You waited for it to rain, you waited for it to stop. You waited to eat and then you waited to eat again. You waited in a shrink's office with a bunch of psychos and you wondered if you were one.
Charles Bukowski