#calling home

[mdeanstrauss]

We have a daughter who lives in Trondheim, Norway where she's a professor of history at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology... she's lived in Europe most of her adult life banging around from one post-doc to another and now she's landed a permanent position... good for her, as her PhD from Harvard and Masters from Oxford and hard work have born fruit. She dutifully checks in with her mom on Sunday mornings via FaceTime... I shot this over her mom's shoulder...

[ashleyfableblack]

More love for my favourite couple of gals as the Sparkle royal family proves that kids will be kids, even if they mutate into a new branch of your species and form a commune in the wreckage of society. At least they call home and love their mommas.

[beardedmrbean]

revicheems

[brokendreamsandpyramidschemes]

The three healthy relationships to help you thrive, as part of conventional wisdom:

Food.

Family (Biological).

Faith.

As someone with a bad relationship with all three, I shouldn't exist, as per conventional wisdom, every moment of mine should be living agony.

And it was, for the majority of my life, it was unsatiable, unnerving, non-stop agony. But now, I've accepted that I'm a bad son, a bad brother, a bad friend, a bad follower, a bad consumer and a bad soul to myself. And after all that I don't know why it still hurts.

I have my father's anger and my mother's festering silence. I carry these wounds that people I love make and lick them over and over, not once allowing them to heal fully. And now, all I see, all that remains, all that shows is this portrait of scars from wounds that never healed.

People say if you sit with your anger long enough, it tells you its real name is grief, and if you sit with it a little longer, it mentions its real name is love. But who do you give love to if it's rejected? How do you learn to love if all your family does is withhold receiving your love because it wasn't their ideas that created it.

How desperate it feels to give this love, as it turns to rot inside me. And that is where this hellsite comes in. This is where I put my love. Into my mutuals, who have the humger for it. I feed them love because I don't remember ever having had my fill of it.

And so, I leave you to it, to the whims of this site. To the love that we all give because somehow on this hellsite, we get a taste of it back. Someone somewhere sends a little ask saying "<3" and nothing more and I taste love like blood in my mouth, like my gums that have bled. I taste the love like it was always inside me. And maybe that's why I can never leave this hellsite. Maybe that's why I'll cling to the rotting carcass of whatever techgiants do to this. For with that tate of love, this will always be my home.

[naturallylilting]

August is fading fast another mournful month calling home with wailing sighs restraint withering as uncertainty germinates propagating seeds of fear, for the first time in years pining for a change of season. Yet my optimism endures through abiding blooms that flourish from the roots of benevolence, joyfully playing their part in the harsh cycle of destruction & replenishment, by ensuring Mother Nature's urn is perennially filled.

.

RhymingTherapy—August 2021 (my photo) poem inspired by @ writerscreed challenge “calling home for the first time in years”

[mila2010]

From WEB

[geocycle2010]