tannertan36
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Cosmic Funnies
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
oozey mess
Show & Tell
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Jules of Nature
tumblr dot com
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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
ojovivo
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macklin celebrini has autism
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occasionally subtle
if i look back, i am lost
Keni
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Singapore
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Mexico
seen from Germany
seen from Ecuador
seen from Hungary
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from New Zealand
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Denmark
@sissyphus-is-happy
When the Earth listens
-Anura
I sigh in grief,
of being unloved.
The sun glows more brightly,
water feels warmer on my feet,
rocks become smoother
the ground feels soft to lie on.
Stray dogs,
and cats
come to me to get a pat.
lay on my lap
stay a little longer.
Butterflies
stay a little longer.
The roots of the trees,
pump my blood to its veins.
the sea storm becomes calmer,
calmer.
The sky and the trees,
send the warm wind
to hug me tighter.
when I sigh in grief,
of being unloved.
The Return
-Anura
The greener grass,
Birds chirping on the bark,
The breeze —
It warms my face like my lover’s touch.
I close my eyes.
Melancholy blooms within,
Destruction hums inside my mind —
Houses burning,
Trees turned to bone,
Birds lie silent on the ground,
Dead.
I turn to the sea.
The tides wash away my sorrow;
My lover returns,
Sits beside me.
The melancholy fades,
And color seeps back into the world.
The sky hums again,
Soft and forgiving.
I rest my head on his shoulder —
The world, once ruined, breathes anew.
The Abyss of Tomorrow
-Anura
The abyss of tomorrow,
A graveyard of dreams—
Where silence weeps,
And nothing gleams.
“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” they asked.
“An artist,” I said, my joy unmasked.
“That won’t bring money,” they sighed,
“Later—be the artist,” they lied.
I dreamed of a guitar that strummed through clouds,
A bike that chased the screaming winds, loud.
A home of hope, where dreams reside,
Brick by brick, my soul inside.
I longed to chase my dreams untamed,
To let my creativity be unnamed.
“Later,” they hissed, their voices cold—
And I waited… till later grew old.
In whispering that the world has turned its gaze away, we silence the hearts that once did.
What if death was not an ending, but a transformation—
where every soul turned into a muse?
The purer the heart, the longer the verse.
The forgotten become poems, the unseen become art,
the unheard become music that never fades.
In that realm, fear cannot follow,
judgment cannot reach—
only creation remains, eternal and free.
The Clock Shop by the Tracks
The shop was located beside the railway tracks — a small, dimly lit room humming with the uneven ticking of countless clocks. The air was heavy with dust and the faint smell of oil. When I stepped inside, I could feel how old the place was. But older than the shop was the man who owned it.
He sat behind a wooden counter, hunched over a wristwatch, his thick round glasses catching the light from a single bulb. He didn’t look up when I entered — just kept working, his hands steady, precise, and silent.
What caught my eye wasn’t him, but the clocks. Each one showed a different time. Some were fast, some were slow, and a few had stopped completely.
“Why do you look so surprised?” he asked, his voice dry but calm.
“These clocks,” I said, glancing around. “They’re all showing different times. Some have stopped — are their batteries dead?”
He didn’t answer. My own watch had stopped that morning; I was in a rush, and without it, I couldn’t see my time. I wondered if this man could help.
“Can you repair my watch?” I asked.
Still without looking up, he said, “The watch is dead?”
“I think so.”
Then he lifted his gaze, and for the first time, our eyes met through the fog of his thick lenses. “Let me see it,” he said.
I handed it over. He examined it for a moment, then disappeared into another room. When he returned, he carried a small box of tools and began to open the back of my watch with a screwdriver.
As he worked, I asked, “Why do all these clocks show different times?”
He smiled faintly, eyes still on the gears. “Not everyone wants to fix their time,” he said. “Some bring their clocks to remember when it stopped ticking.”
The ticking in the room suddenly grew louder, like the sound of a hundred hearts refusing to beat in unison.
When he handed back my watch, it was working again — softly, steadily.
“How much?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No charge. Just… don’t come back too soon.”
Outside, a train roared past the tracks, and I felt the ground tremble. I looked down at my wrist — the hands of the watch moving gently, almost tenderly.
For a second, I wasn’t sure if it was keeping my time anymore — or if it had joined all the others inside that quiet room, ticking for something I had yet to lose.
The Bridge
Have you ever seen a bridge? It connects two lands over a body of water. But I often wonder—how must the bridge feel? Suspended in the air, with no support of its own. What if the lands drift apart? What if they let go of the bridge? Where would it go then?
I can feel that. In fact, I have always felt this way.
My childhood was not difficult; I had support, care, and everything I needed. Yet, when it came to friendship, I always felt like the bridge—necessary, but never fully belonging to either side. Throughout my school years, I never had a close friend. I spoke to many, I knew many, but real closeness was rare. Two or three friends at most, and even with them, there was always a distance.
As I grew older, I realized something unsettling: I do not always give what I receive, or perhaps I do not receive what I give. I have many friends now, yet I cannot truly feel them. No matter how hard I try, the connection slips away. To me, people are like those two lands—lands that may let go of me at any time, though we still need one another.
But unlike a bridge made only of stone or steel, I have something within me that holds me together. The iron bars that give me strength are literature, art, movies, songs, and languages. These are what sustain me. They are what make me ,me.
Leftovers.
- Anura
Woke on hot concrete,
a summer’s day burning—
the scorching sun
drank the last drop of water.
From a dustbin,
a packet of biriyani,
leftovers—
caught my eyes.
I ate that.
Feet quicken,
eyes avert,
faces twist
in disgust—
treating us as untouchables.
But hunger
is louder than dignity.
I could never be someone’s own,
closer to the dust of concrete,
closer to the waste in dustbins.
I’ll sleep again beneath the sky,
where the stars will shine
for everyone—
but never on me.
When we were children, our teachers often assigned us essays on “The Aim of Your Life.” As I grew older, I began to notice how deeply anxious people became about defining their goals and the meaning of life. This led me to reflect on a fundamental question: why are we so preoccupied with the future? What compels us to spend so much energy on what is yet to come, often at the expense of fully inhabiting the present?
As far as I've noticed , the anxiety about the future has roots both in biology and society. Biologically, we are perhaps the only animals capable of abstract thinking and foresight. Since the agricultural revolution, this capacity has only intensified. We began sowing crops not for immediate use but to secure food for the future, working diligently today in the hope of leisure tomorrow—a promise that more often proves elusive. Our ability to imagine what might come makes us equally prone to worrying about it, sometimes so much that we fail to live in the present moment.
Socially, as Viktor Frankl observed in his reflections on life in concentration camps, it was often those with a clear sense of purpose who managed to endure unimaginable suffering. Philosophers across centuries have similarly argued that a life without aim is a life not fully lived. Even today, we can see how people fall into despair when they struggle to articulate future goals—suggesting that our sense of meaning remains inextricably tied to our vision of what is yet to come.
But if the future is ultimately unknowable, why trouble ourselves with goals at all? In my view, the necessity of setting goals lies in the promise that the future can be made better than the present. Paradoxically, this search for meaning often begins with confronting what feels incomplete and unsatisfactory in our current circumstances. By honestly recognizing what is lacking now, we create the possibility of envisioning—and striving toward—a future worth living.
maybe it isn’t just about the aim of life, but about learning to walk the line between imagining tomorrow and inhabiting today.
So do our goals actually help us live more fully, or do they sometimes keep us from living at all?
On the subject about parents needing to control their child's reading and invade their privacy in order to "protect" them from "inappropriate material:
Until I was in....college? At least? The vast, vast majority of the books I read were either a) assigned by my school or b) (the vast majority of my reading) provided to me by my mother.
My mom is a librarian. She filled our rooms with books, picked especially for us. She pointed out books on the shelves in our home library (separate from our bedroom shelves) that she thought we would like. She bought us books for birthdays, Christmas, and just stacks of recommendations. She once paid me $10 to read one of the Cirque Du Freak books because she said I needed "to be exposed to bad literature."
She respected my privacy in room, didn't go through my belongings. She explicitly pointed out to us that she wouldn't know if we took a particular book of the shelf, as long as we returned it, if we didn't want her to know we were reading it. She purposely brought us books that she didn't care for herself, because she thought we might find them valuable or enjoyable.
And if we wanted to read something she thought might upset or disturb us, she would explain why. She wouldn't stop us from reading it - just ask us to check in with her, to talk through it.
And so when I read something that upset or disturbed me, I would go to her. She would listen and talk through it with me.
If she said she didn't think I would like something, or that a book might disturb me, or that she thought I should wait until I was older, I listened to her.
She didn't need restrictions or control to protect me. Because she proved I could trust her.
Controlling kids is never about "protecting" them. It's just about control.
As an ending, death is always feared—so why do we romanticize it along the way?
Wings Of Love
-Anura
If I can never be loved,
I'll buy a bird.
I'll let it fly
Across the oceans.
And when it meets its lover,
When it is free,
I'll be loved again—
Loved by thee.
There were many mourners in the graveyard, yet the sky wept heavily.
Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
Look at the trees. Green leaves, dark brown bark. Bark is never—can’t be—smooth. Do they have lives? They do. Do they think? Well, they don’t have consciousness, so I believe they don’t. If a tree could think or talk, they would have beauty standards, wouldn’t they? They would share their traumas with their neighbours. They would curse the grown man for killing and cutting their friend down. They would love the kid who sits under the tree and daydreams.
The people we don’t usually care about—the shepherds, the homeless, the vagabonds—sometimes rest under the tree. But they never hurt it. So the tree would love them.
Consciousness is a curse, I would say. We make everything about ourselves. I remember when our teachers used to give us assignments like “Essay on a broken cycle” or “Essay on the river.” I always wondered why they made us write weird things like that. Was it because they wanted us to grow more empathy for our surroundings? I believe they miserably failed. We humans don’t even show empathy to other humans.
But what about those who really wrote those essays with feeling? What about those who constantly put themselves into others’ shoes? Why do they suffer so much in life?
Would the trees love them?
