#being a human

[yellingfellow]

I want to SCREAAAAAMMMM

The world is fucking burning

Palestinians are being starved in their fucking tents that they have to live in because their whole neighborhoods have been bombed

Congolese women are being raped for not meeting their quotas

People are pulling each other out of mines that have collapsed

Babies are laying next to their dead mothers

Trump is on the ballot in Colorado

Indigenous women and teens being kidnapped and murdered and no one wants to help

They won’t search the landfills for the remains of dead natives

We’re being fed stories by the same 6 media coroporations and AI generated fucking prompts are taking over all forms of video and picture we can’t even know what is real

The world is fucking burning and the ice is melting and earthquakes and tsunamis are shaking the fucking earth and people’s homes are being flooded and completely destroyed

But no lets just keep pretending like it matters if I pay my fucking taxes

[foxsoulcourt]

what are these things I’m feeling?!

Explanation of Dr Plutchik’s Wheel

Farhaaz Dhuka’s explanation of how he found this wheel helpful, as a child sorting through what he was feeling, and as a writer.

[tears-that-heal]

artist on Instagram @ap.crtv

[tryslora]

I hate advertising/marketing myself (as a creator).

I feel like I'm intruding.

But I also feel weirdly like using Blaze on Tumblr might be okay? In some weird way?

If I start using Tumblr properly as me. A fan. Too. That's important.

I miss social media and communities.

This post did not end where it started, did it?

Does anyone care what I'm reading/watching these days?

[intoxicatingimmediacy]

[id: a tweet by @AdamMGrant that reads: “The hallmark of an open mind: not letting your ideas become your identity. If you define yourself by your opinions, questioning them is a threat to your integrity. If you see yourself as a curious person or a lifelong learner, changing your mind is a moment of growth.” /end id]

[whentherewerebicycles]

just finished going through all the shared album photos from our japan trip which meant having to look at many photos of myself from many angles and it’s like sigh. I think there’s no choice but to accept myself as I am you know? obviously I felt the usual old stirrings of revulsion—for my body, my unprettiness, my ‘descended from italian peasant stock’ look. but what can you do? I’m smart. I’m funny. I make the people I work with feel better about themselves and more confident in their ability to do hard things. I am kind and I do the right thing far more often than not. I love and am secure in the knowledge that I am loved in return. and who knows—maybe it would have be harder for me to become any one of those things if I was a little thinner, a little prettier, a little closer to that impossible norm I spent so much of my life measuring myself against. liz and I always say to each other ‘you can’t change the timeline!!’ whenever we start bemoaning the fact that we only met in our last year of college—because if you change even one thing, even a fraction, you might not end up becoming the person you are now. I like that person. I like the person I have become. learning how to move through the pain of shame (shame about who and what I am; shame about how I look and how others perceive me) made me gentler, more reflective, more compassionate. and besides: I think I’m too deep into this life now to waste my time wishing I were living some other life, in some other body, looking some other way. I look like me and I like me. I like this human person.

[februarytales]

There's a pool of sadness in my being.

And sometimes I can hear it sing.

An eerie voice lingering long after it ends.

Accompanied by ghostly visions of the past.

Sometimes it sings at dawn.

And sometimes it sings when I am asleep.

But always, always, it sings only when I am alone.

The constant hum has a blue softness.

Almost like the way my smile looks on my tired days.

But on rare days the hum becomes a vibrant violet.

And feels like the shade of the magic in my eyes.

The songs are about the things I hold in my heart.

Like the stories of my childhood times,

and the places where I left pieces of who I am.

But on nights when I can no longer fall asleep,

the songs take on a familiar tune.

They become the whispers of the restless sea,

and the slow crackling of the campfire on the shore.

It brings back the smell of the waves,

the vibrations of their crashing spreading through my bones.

For a brief moment, I become a child again.

Free to laugh and smile,

and free to sleep without the usual accompaniment of nightmares.

Even though all of this is in my head,

simply the long gone moments from my past,

the ghostly visions are what keeps me sane.

Reminding me that not always will life be so blue.

And that blue is not always so sad.

Knowing this, the pool of sadness sings on and on.

The humming taking on a sweeter tone.

© Moonyloonywitch