Small talk kills me. Teach me something. Tell me about your life experiences and the lessons you've learned. Discuss psychology and your spiritual journey. Give me depth and authenticity.
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Noah Kahan
macklin celebrini has autism
RMH
EXPECTATIONS
Three Goblin Art
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Game of Thrones Daily

★
we're not kids anymore.
untitled

Origami Around
Show & Tell
Mike Driver
h
NASA

Kiana Khansmith
YOU ARE THE REASON
KIROKAZE
Cosimo Galluzzi
seen from South Africa
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seen from United States
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seen from Colombia
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@bethanyanarchy
Small talk kills me. Teach me something. Tell me about your life experiences and the lessons you've learned. Discuss psychology and your spiritual journey. Give me depth and authenticity.
i don’t care about straight actors playing queer people in media all i care about is if theyre going to put their whole pussy into it. tom hardy of course ive had gay sex im an actor. keanu reeves and river phoenix going to gay clubs in seattle and making out in public. heath ledger almost breaking jake gyllenhal’s nose because he kissed him too hard. when will actors do this again.
𝙵𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟸 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
vibing with Franz Kafka 99 years ago
@sluttyfranzkafka
Oh mood. Planning this for the 100th year anniversary
Happy 100 years of feeling nothing, merely tired
happy 101 years of feeling nothing, merely tired
sleep tight, ya morons!
Holden, The Catcher in the Rye
12:56 am
Was limp on the couch a moment ago. Emersed in night’s rawness and the darkness of the living room--only the faint blue glow of the illuminated fish tank provided my vision with the vague comfort of a sterile, familiar light. The profoundness yet weightlessness of my present being hummed in the stillness of the quiet now. T.S. Eliot echoed in the caverns of my mind: “Do I dare disturb the universe?”
And I set eyes upon the fish tank, vacant of all life to human sight besides a single fish. The last survivor. How lonely he must be, I thought. Floating. Empty. Plastic plants would make such fake friends. I would grow tired of my own presence. What a sad scene to look upon and recognize, knowingly.
It occurred to me then and sharply that I was quite foolish. This was just my perception of the fish; this was just the projection of myself onto the fish; this was just my imagination. The fish was not lonely--it was a fish. The scene was not sad--I simply perceived it so.
“It’s entirely reasonable to hunger for the intimacy of quiet conversation at night without starving from its absence; it’s possible to become more aware of the emptiness of one aspect of life while filling others; it’s possible to feel deep loneliness without despairing about it.” - Don Pogreba
Po was probably one of the most influential teachers of my life as a student; he was just exceptional with what he did. He was a true educator, and the embodiment of what a true educator should be. I’m extremely torn by his sudden absence.
I struggled with the rigorousness of his class a lot of the time, even last year, whether it be due to its content-heaviness or weighty workload. But he always gave me leeway and never talked me down once. He was positive and encouraging, critically honest, and faithful in my potential, never discouraging as an advisor---as someone I admired. I know he was closer to a specific handful of students, especially his debaters to which he mentored significantly, but his influence on me was still incredibly impactful. I guess I came to my school last year as a kind of tabula rasa, or “blank slate,” and I can’t put into words all I cumulatively took from his teachings, how much my slate has been furnished by this knowledge. It meant a lot to me, those few times, to hear he was proud of me, even though they were moments of simplicity and possibly meager in the face of both our bigger, more extensive lives. And I also appreciated when he took the time to sit me down and help me at my lowest, when I was struggling to keep up. And it did help. Greatly.
If anyone who even possibly reads this is somehow hungry for some quality writing by the best writer I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing in person, check out Po’s blog: the quixotic pilgrim. There are also some extraordinary photographs of his travels around the world.
Po is technically an educator to all, in a sense---his academic website is a place where you can really learn anything of the humanities and it’s all the same content from his real courses. It’s an incredible resource--and free to everyone (as education should be). Check out the quixotic pedagogue if you’re curious.
I honestly can’t thank him enough, for everything. He deserves a healthy recovery. Always made someone laugh every day---at least I can account for that. I’ll probably always envy his wits, his cleverness, and oddly incredible memory. And I, along with everyone else who knew him here, will miss him. I’m working on improving my C+ in Government class at the moment...kind of stressing.
Wishing him all the best.
collector of small and meaningful objects (with no inherent use other than to make the heart glow a little softer)
there are so many hidden relationships between people.. ur grandpa killed mine in a war some 800 years ago but also we were neighbors in the 1700s who traded eggs and milk. wwhat does that make us
in high school I found out a guy in my english class had an ancestor who was on the opposite side of the samurai rebellion in which my great great grandfather was meant to be executed (for losing) but he ran away and hid for the rest of his life and the guy was like “….damn. good for him. now we’re both here to write bad essays on pride and prejudice.”
At the moment I am writing in the midst of some super fun writer's block in order to scratch something out for this essay. Whether or not I say anything of value at the moment will be determined later I suppose… I just need to start writing something.
I journal a lot, so I often write about myself and my life deeply, but to myself, to the air… not for the perception of anyone else’s eyes. This is partially why writing about myself for my personal essay feels so unfamiliar; to think of someone else reading what I write about myself is plainly alien, especially because i simply don’t know them and their perception of me out of all perceptions will determine a part of my future somehow.
Why is it that college applications are so goddamn condescending... i’m having a lot of trouble just beginning my personal essay in the first place. I don’t want to write about me. And, if i did, i wouldn’t want it to be read by strange eyes reading only to make judgement of me, and it may be childish of me to feel this way, but its also just embarrassing. that might sound repetitive. But i feel like what I say about myself, despite how true it is, is silly, and I just sound foolish.
Does free will exist?
yeah
©︎ Amber Maitrejean
I don't even pick up the knife and ponder anymore nowadays. Things go by a flash and only i remain stagnant. A constant. An empty reminisce of the person i used to be and the friends that could've lingered about. Because i am burning and unstable and there's nothing beautiful about a flame that both flickers and devours. There's no warmth but a char burnt out and ugly. There is no 'me'.
Where are the primary causes that I can lean on, what foundations do I have? Where am I to get them? I make exercises in thinking, and therefore every primary cause immediately drags after itself another, even more primary cause and so on, in perpetuity. Such is the essence of all consciousness and thought.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground (via philosophybits)
No,
I can't tell you what's wrong,
because I can't articulate
the hollow feeling inside me;
the echo chamber
of doubts and fears.
- G.L. Angelone
—Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami.
Dealing with other people reminds me of why I like to be alone.
Raine Cooper (via thoughtkick)
sorry for being weird lately it's just that ive been weird lately