[baawri]

[kairisk]

my mantra for the new year, let’s get it

[fancifty]

“you should never call a psychopath a psychopath. it upsets them.”

[dankmemeuniversity]

[anxietyproblem]

[habibi243]

WHY ARE YOU SO LOUD?

[whitepeopletwitter]

[100493503004422]

I procrastinate so much that I have a gaping hole of dread inside my chest where I think my other emotions are supposed to go. unless a potential employer is reading this, in which case I don’t do that & I have all the normal emotions that human beings have & I love capitalism

[furiousgoldfish]

one rational braincell: there can be more than one task done during the day

all other braincells: you know what, now it’s zero

[jaubaius]

It belongs in a museum,I think

[su-whisterfield]

This is utterly fabulous!

[ir-dr]

Day 2763 - 5 February 2020

cats in sneakers

.//projectTiGER

[alisonzai]

[petitepluume]

I never related that much with something

[beebeedibapbeediboop]

I’m afraid I lost myself

[grey-wardens-archive-deactivate]

Central to the film is a reclamation of the Orpheus myth, a version of which the three young women read aloud together one night. Sophie registers distress at Orpheus’s fatal, selfish incompetence in looking back at Eurydice when he was told not to, and Marianne suggests he may have done it on purpose, preferring to lose the woman and savor, instead, the romance of his grief, making not “the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.” But it’s Héloïse who removes, for once, the fixation on Orpheus, his failings, and his loss. What if, she says to Marianne with an edge of defiance, it was Eurydice herself who chose art over staying together, who rather than leave the underworld with Orpheus, stopped and called out “Turn around,” preferring to remain down there and be preserved in poetry. A kind of freedom and a kind of permanence, rather than, as eighteenth-century marriage looks to be, an unwilling exchange of one for the other. —  In Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Love is a Work of Art

[charlottecors]

[naamahdarling]

I will trade you one terrible memory for a memory I have of a young pine tree covered in butterflies.

A hundred monarchs resting on their long flight have lit here, on these green needles.  You reach out.  The tired creatures crawl onto your arms, wings slowly parting and closing, parting and closing, as they breathe.  They rest, covering you in magic.  You spin in the sunlight, laughing.  You are very small, and they glow like candles behind colored glass.

I will trade you one awful, inescapable thing for this one golden moment in time, this moment of honeycomb light and a warm autumn day tapering to endless evening.

Look, you have made the trade.  You can take your memory back anytime, but you do not need to bear it always.  Now I will hold it for you so that for a while it can be smaller and further away.

Look at the butterflies.

[whitepeopletwitter]

[ulibeanzz]

unfamiliar with the concept