Zines and artist interviews. Discovered a bunch of tiny little detail brushes squirreled away in the storeroom and put them to good use. It’s so hot. Haven’t made a proper painting since.
Hello and thank you for visiting our page. My name is Kristina and I am helping raise funds for Alaa, a single mother in Gaza trying to surv
Hello friends, I am your friend Alaa, who lost her husband in the war. I gave birth to my daughter, Fatoum, without her ever seeing her father.
We are going through a very difficult humanitarian situation.
My campaign is extremely weak, and it is my only source of income for my daughter, Fatoum.
Fatoum is sick because of the cold weather and the lack of proper heating.
We are suffering greatly from all conditions. Our tent is very poor and not suitable for living.Everything here is hard to find. There is no source of income, no money, and my daughter is very ill.
Please help me.😭🙏🙏
This is a humanitarian case, and no matter how small your donation is, it will help me provide a dignified life for my daughter.
Two-thirds through December and I wonder at myself for taking such notice of calendar months and years, even still. My life is a labyrinth I have not yet plotted a course through, and perhaps that is irresponsible, but I cannot escape the conviction that it is, above all, a part of being alive. I do not have all the answers, nor am I in a hurry to unravel all the mysteries of my future life, but I hope.
My name is Abdullah Al-Qassab, I’m 27 years old, and I am writing this message with trembling hands and an empty stomach — from Gaza.
Before the war, I had a small travel agency something I built with love, effort, and hope.I dreamed of a simple life… a dignified life.
But the war didn’t just destroy my home and business —it shattered my ability to dream.
Today, I’m not asking for dreams.I’m asking for bread. For water. For life I now live with my family in the open — no walls, no roof, just the cold ground beneath us.
We are in a catastrophic famine.
We go days without food.
We faint in the street from hunger.
Our bodies are giving up.
And still… the world remains silent.
My mother has a heart condition — she needs medicine and special food.
Now she lies in pain, her chest aching, and I have nothing to give her. My grandmother has high blood pressure — worsened by hunger and cold nights.
Her body is shrinking before my eyes.
And me😞?
I’ve collapsed more than once from weakness. From not eating.But I stand up again… because they need me.
What do you call this life?
Sleeping on the dirt… watching your family starve… praying your heart doesn’t stop before help arrives? This is not a life. This is a slow death. To anyone reading this Please… don’t turn away from me.
Help me buy food before we collapse again. Help me get medicine before my mother’s heart gives out.
Help me bring even one moment of comfort to my grandmother before it’s too late.
I’m not asking for luxury.
I’m not asking for comfort.
> I’m begging for survival.
Even the smallest act of kindness could mean the world to us. Please… save us from this hunger.
— Abdullah Al-Qassab
Gaza, Palestine
🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸GoFundMe link🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸
"A Family Trying to Survive"
My name is Abdullah Al-Qassab, a 27-year… Maryam Awad needs your support for Help Abdullah's family in
📩 Or DM me if you prefer to help directly.. 🙏🏻
Every dollar helps. Every reblog helps. Every bit of empathy matters... 🥹💔
Please don’t scroll past – Gaza is starving in silence.... 🙏🏻😞
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #687 )✅️
I have to say, I’ve realized that used books are usually a greater source of joy for me than brand spanking new ones, with the blurb in the back replaced by reviews and the first page or two filled with additional reviews lauding and praising the book before I even get to the writing. I do not appreciate the feeling of being advertised at, is what I’m saying. Older editions were better at sticking to the essence of book and author and furthering the reading experience.
Khan Younis… a city overwhelmed by displacement, suffocating under the weight of tents and silent screams.Families fleeing from one danger into another, with nothing but broken dreams and borrowed blankets.
Children are starving. Mothers spend the day searching for crumbs. Fathers are shadows of themselves, carrying pain they can’t express. No clean water. No food. No medicine.
This is not a page from history — this is now. In Khan Younis. In the dust and mud, among torn tents and empty pots.
Hunger is the only language left. The cries are loud, even if the world has stopped listening.
Please, don’t turn away. Every share, every donation can help.
My name is Motaz, and my wife is Huda. We got married only three months before the war. We d… Adam M needs your support for Help Feed & Hous
I’m attempting to prioritize reading the primary texts whenever possible whilst studying lit theory. There is so much that it’s a bit overwhelming, but I’m enjoying annotating the heck out of everything.
I’m trying to make a couple of journals. I have a few vague ideas but no concrete plans because I want it to feel…instinctual? That’s not the right word. I want the way I feel whilst making them to translate to the structure of the books, if that makes sense. And I don’t want to hold on to ideas that will not translate that feeling. I don’t want it to be fussy, I know that much. Each of the signature covers are prints of title pages of plays and poems that I love, some are about architectural elements, and some are botanical drawings by naturalists. Art and literature, basically, not that that’s a very big surprise.
I’ve been watching a lot of Margaux Kent’s posts and videos on how she makes her notebooks and uses them. They feel so real and unpretentious and she’s inspired me to try to create something that feels true to who I am. The next part!s the most tedious though- punching holes to thread the needle through during the binding. Sigh. I have been procrastinating over that. 😅
Honestly, I’m so freaking exhausted from hearing the constant litany of “development”, “4th largest economy”, and “Modiji” blaring from the tv all day every day from these brain dead podcast bros whose alimentary canals seem to be permanently suctioned to the asses of the present ruling political party members, Human Centipede-style. The podcast bros whom my father religiously (ha!) listens to, quotes, and believes, with zero critical thought or checking of sources. I’m so tired. A 60 year old man shouldn’t have to be told to exercise his brain instead of his prejudice and bigotry against any and all individuals who are different from him. At this point I’m wondering how he can stand to be in his own mind.
The sun that usually streams through my windows until 6 doesn’t linger past 4:30 pm anymore. We don’t have an autumn, but I notice yellow leaves more frequently now. There’s the faintest hint of anticipation in the air; it feels like fairly lights, Diwali sweets, and magical nights. It feels like deliciously creepy books and movies. Of being cuddled in bed with cats and poetry. I love this time of the year.
romaincrisis
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
baratheonpilled
