#belongingness

[gowhereyoubreathefree]

Someday, we'll likely find where we belong. Until then, I'm going my own way.

[indizombie]

Sweeper women and men counter exclusionary and discriminatory experiences through inclusionary practices. Sweeper women often refer to themselves with the collective ‘we’ instead of the individual ‘I’ to draw a sense of belonging from their community. A woman sweeper using the term ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ while sharing her experiences of discrimination signals collectiveness and belongingness to their community. It also serves to her as a coping mechanism against being singled out.

Ayra Indrias Patras, ‘Once a sweeper…?’, Dawn

[immigrantslenz]

One of the successes of community engagement is when the people in the community or a particular area feel a sense of belongingness to whatever the project is being championed... the willingness of the people to partake in the project serve as a catalyst to achieving desired vision and mission of the project. #afrospacetime . . 📷: Nana Osei - 2019 . . . #accra #ghana #lagos #nigeria #africa #communityengagement #community #engagement #art #dancegathering #360la #catalyst #vision #mission #belongingness #willingness #ashantiimmigrant #streetstyle #streetphotography #everydayafrica #dynamicafrica #visiterlafrique #accrawedey #afropresentism #afrospacetime (at Lagos, Nigeria) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bu3ednQgJMR/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1l7mqruypdqm6

[hkatnawer-blog]

I don't belong

Fluid dreams, vivid memories, like a kaleidoscope in front my eyes, as I press my left eye harder to seep into, the derilium of ecstasy, green and joyous, I gulp the last of my drying saliva inside my stomach, and close both the eyes and open my arms, to leave what I have and reach where I don't belong, because where I belong, I don't know, but perhaps, belongingness is something, I should move on from and just be..........

[the-fat-truth]

Sexuality

For a while, I have been trying to sort out my sexuality. But I think it doesn't have to be sorted out. I have learned what terms most apply to me, but it is not like they will make dating any easier or make it so people would stop harassing me about relationships. I have no overwhelming issue or concern with my sexuality. I used to think I could not be queer because I don't lose sleep about my sexuality or feel persecuted by it. My sexualjty is changing. It is something that I feel I should define but don't feel the need to do. I don't feel like my story of my coming to terms with my sexuality is one of empowerment or negativity, but is rather settling my ever curious mind. Basicaĺly, it feels odd defining myself as queer or polysexual demisexual because I feel I dont deserve to be a part of the community. But I think the not belonging is the one part of coming to terms with my sexuality that is difficult. It is not put on me, this not belonging, but is inside me. And I think the whole point of labeling oneself as queer is about connecting with others who don't belong, who don't fit into social norms. Ironic, isn't it?

[dirtyhippieproductions]

ujut (n.) a moment where one is in peace, cozy, relaxed and at easy with one’s self or being with friends experiencing belongingness and acceptance.

☮  ❤ ॐ

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[justscribbledwords]

Some days I belong to you,  even when you have never wanted me that way and some days I belong to the guy I used to forget you but none of you ever belong to me, ever. Hell most of the times even I don’t belong to myself 

BELONGING // JustScribbledWords

[christincall]

Chair, umbrella, card table, cow liver

The action of words, doingness of the work of words, and the verb of doing a labor is vibratory membranes, speech, the beside us of the object. Here are Gertrude’s pork loins, salted and pearly red. Here is the tea kettle. Stubborn.

My laying the railroad ties in the besideness, swinging the hammer of speech a belief in identification, you aside from, you foreign land of lathe-carved spindle chairs, the umbrella and the chip on the black cane handle of the umbrella. It must be division happens in the soundwaves departing from my body, the emptying of voice against you.

Tell me again you loved me. Tell me again you loved me. Tell me the language exerted into the fold-out card table, and the silly Victorian lace tossed over it, where a tin coffee can left its ring of rust, did not add to the entropy of the room.

The doing of speech is to be with and without, an alien-ness of belonging, and the intrinsic predilection to become a train speeding from the horror of the known parts. Soup cans slouching on the shelf. The cow liver laid out to dry.