binkachu

[binkachu]

"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more."

I never was a Knightley. I always wrote and wrote about love never knowing what it really was. Jane Austen's words confused me. How can you say you feel something if you can't put it into words? How can you say you know something you can't describe?

The same way a physicist seems to innately grasp the nature of their object of study or the inner workings of their field even when half the formulas haven't been written yet. When half the curriculum is split into the next course you'lle be taking and you're not supposed to know half this stuff yet. I sometimes can guess the way the field of magnetic induction flows. I get the sense.

I get the sense you'll flow into the rest of my life just as easily as air into my lungs and winds in the great atmosphere. Like winds, this feeling is forceful and unimaginably vast. I know it could cover valleys and breeze past mountains of sorrows and hardships if it wanted to. And it clearly does.

If I loved you less I would still be here writing, but it would be just some smitten and lovey-dovey list of all the things i superficially noticed about you first. Instead here I am trying to research my own feelings and analysing thoughts as if it's statistical data with a definitive answer in itself waiting to be uncovered by my graphs.

Nothing about this love is definite. It goes beyond definition and analitical study. I guess it's a good thing for now cause at least you can say you mean more to me than physics, the study of all that exists. What do I care, afterall, if half of this exists if it doesn't include you?

[binkachu]

nei tuoi confronti provo vuoto cosmico

e così descrivo questa sensazione nuova

per la vertigine smozzafiato data dal non averti

per lo spavento di non trovarti affianco dove dovresti essere

come un terrorista che si cerca e si tasta non trovando gli esplosivi che aveva in tasca.

ho ansia e brama insieme mischiate

allo schiaffo pronto e la voglia di ammirare tal guancia su cui lo poserei.

oserei dire che non avendoti non ho un bel niente nei tuoi confronti

da dirti, da baciarti in fronte

ho eccessive parole ed espressivi silenzi

per il muro dinnanzi e la saliva ai denti

[binkachu]

~ sospesa

non sento altro se non lo splendere fievole della luce, di traverso

sul tuo profilo

che canta.

direi che a una gobba fa un singhiozzo ma la melodia non ha errori

fila liscia su un accordo nuovo.

sei nuovo e irripetibile

ombra ovattata

su quel poco che ho da dire,

da risponderti.

ho veramente poco da dirti,

forse molto da ascoltare.

dai, canta.

[binkachu]

"I loved you so much I wanted to wipe your tears when you were breaking up with me"

If I could have wiped my blood off of your hand after you stabbed me. if I could have slipped away of your grip after you slapped me and held me till the end of your screams roared through the glass doors.

I would have wiped the feet that had stepped on me. I would have played the song that brought me to tears on the piano you almost broke, with the hands that almost loved me.

I want nothing to do with the memories that fill your mind of a love you once thought was true, was given, well-deserved. I want not to have the creases my tears formed from loving you a little too long, entirely too much and wholly undeserved.

I loved you so much I didn't care to check for tears when you were breaking up with me. I loved you so much I was wrong to do so. Because there weren't any.

[binkachu]

"I am a forest fire

And I am the fire and I am the forest

And I am a witness watching it

I stand in a valley watching it

And you are not there at all"

-A Burning Hill, Mitski

I saw this quote in a tweet that said "are you okay? No" and then responded with the first 3 lines of the quote. It describes the phenomenon of depersonalization so well I had to comment my thoughts.

I am the pouring rain. I am hitting the ground at such a velocity that my droplets split into two on impact, or jump around ferociously in puddles. I am the cat under the rain getting wet so quickly I can't even see where to flee to. I am the car under the rain not knowing how to drive myself anymore. I am the sheltered window of a townhouse with functioning draining pipes watching chaos ensue. I am everything from the water falling, to the ground it's hitting, through the air it's slicing. I am the person under it yet I don't feel like a person at all.

I haven't felt like a person all my life. There's always been times when my episodes hit and my soul barely manages to cling to this body I see life through. I used to think it was normal when I was a kid. I even asked some friends very casually, mid-conversation, how they felt when they distanced themselves from their body. So you can imagine my shock when I found out it doesn't happen to everyone. I don't think it's entirely a bad thing though.

I've seen myself out of my body so many times that feeling direct empathy for others comes naturally to me. I could very well not be myself tomorrow and wake up as someone else for all I know so relating to other's human struggle isn't difficult at all. But in all seriousness I also know what depersonalization is a symptom of and I'm not trying to bore you with all that could potentially be wrong with me.

This evening I started writing for a different reason. I am a forest fire, I am the fire, I am the forest and I am a witness watching it. I am myself, I am my actions, I am my person and I am my soul/mind watching my life unfold from third person pov. I am all of these things at once but I haven't come to terms with it yet.

I am the person people see me as, I am the mean of the personalities others see. I am who I am when I am completely alone and what goes through my head at all times. Does that make me a shit person? No, it makes me a real one. A complete one. A real one...

did I just crack depersonalization or am I having an episode?

[binkachu]

"Hope” is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all

-Emily Dickinson

I found this poem of Emily's from John Green's short mention of it in a tiktok on hope; here's the link to it:

https://www.tiktok.com/@literallyjohngreen/video/7158882703633288491

It made my brain do some thinking. Then I wrote the first draft to this post, struggled to find the words to describe whatever I was feeling, and went to sleep. It's now two days later and I barely remember what my initial thoughts were and what triggered me to write. What I do remember is how it made me feel. Seen.

Hope is the song of a bird in a tree that stands there undisturbed by any wind. The tree stands. The bird sings. Nothing changes really. The seasons may go by, but you'll eventually hear the birds again. And even if you don't hear the birds for a long time they're still singing.

It's the fact that the sun is always rising or setting in the middle of the horizon somewhere in the world that fuels this hope. The song goes on because somewhere a child hears a bird sing the last bit of it and starts humming it while playing. The melody runs on because the child learns to play piano and eventually plays what he remembers of it.

Nothing is really ever lost because the variation of entropy in a thermodynamic cycle is always null. This machine that we call life may not have the best coefficient of efficiency but at least it doesn't waste hope.

The hope that we "lose" goes somewhere else without us knowing. Maybe the couch we put out on the street after we moved out of our ex-boyfriend's house was found by a couple who just moved in together. Or by a lady with a cat that scratched her old couch to bits.

Those bits and pieces of fabric we see as waste. The summer mornings we hear the song of the birds we see as temporary. When really they are the biggest constant in these lives of ours.

Little things like these make me emotional. They make me finally put my phone down after scrolling for hours. I'm transported back to when I was the one with no hope at all. And no belief in the concept of hope either. Hope had always been singing in the past.

Here is where I would overshare about all the examples of traumatic times in my life and the one speck of hope during those times that I can only find now when looking back through my memories. But I won't do that in writing. Instead here's a more recent thought of mine.

All the people that I will get to love in my life that I don't know yet are out there singing with the bird right now. What does it mean?

The title of my most recent spotify playlist is "roll out of your bed while sleeping and call it falling in love". That is precisely what I feel like I have been doing this entire time. Half of my life probably. The expression of "falling" in love sums it up fairly decently. I have been falling into things and friendships and situationships and relationships and even more friendships and I will continue to do so. Half of it isn't and won't ever be under my control. Most affinities aren't intentional or as predictable as we'd like. I have been learning and accepting that's how things are and I'm adapting pretty well if I may say so myself.

Yet I can't shake the annoyance of not knowing. Having no clue where my next friend will pop out of, or where my soulmate is hiding. I admit it, I want to know so bad I feel like I'm already falling, just in an endless tunnel instead of somebody's arms.

The next quote I read somewhere that ended up in my spotify playlist's description reads "You carry so much love in your heart. Give some to yourself." I really feel the burden of that love right now. I'm a gnome with a sack bigger than himself carrying all this love over what seems to be a mountain (I'm too short to tell) and huffing and puffing all the way up. Trust me, I've been giving enough to myself and I'm always learning how to balance self-love and self-improvement.

The problem right now is waiting. Continuing to wait to hear this song of love, for the sparks, for the kinetic energy. No potential stuff anymore please, thank you God. I'd like to think that waiting makes the heart grow fonder, but like John Green said about hope, that's bullshit.

The love of my life is somewhere singing right now. Are they singing the song of hope? If not, maybe the birds are. If they aren't or if my soulmate isn't that good at singing, maybe the song of love is still playing somewhere in the background. Like when you leave the music playing on your phone but the volume is down so you don't realize It's been playing for hours untill you turn the volume up.

I hope I eventually realize, after rolling out of my bed while sleeping, where it was that I was falling.

[binkachu]

uniform divergence and the illusion of uniqueness

New friends and collegues have entered my life and asked to see pictures of my cats. None of them was given prior permission to start a conversation or initiate a friendship even but they did anyways. Why does that feel so weird? Why does being in the spotlight of my own life feel wrong? Isn't it weird that I don't feel like the main character anymore?

Moreover, I'm realizing I've never felt like that. I'm not the main anything in my life. I'm not the main source of laughs, my friends are. I'm not the main source of love, God is. I'm not the main source of small daily joys, my cats are.

New friends asked to know the names of my cats and showed me photos of theirs. Tiny abitual specs of happiness filter through from one life to another as I realize they're not the main character either. No one really is. If I had to choose one, the main character would be humanity as a whole (and the storyline is getting pretty fucked right now) but that doesn't quite cut it either.

However, that's not the point. There's no point, really. This is just a ramble. A ramblr on tumblr. I've taken the inspiration from one of these new friends and tried to write again at least. At least this 3.07 am literary failure doesn't exist in plato's world of forms and ideas anymore. I've given it shape somehow.

We're not the main character of any story. Not ours, not our cats' (whose life literally depends on us), not our friends'. We're the sculptors. We give imput to a material that doesn't follow the laws of physics and material structures and isn't solid or liquid or plasma or anything really. We give imput, we put out energy, work, masterpieces, failed brownies and life takes and eats what she pleases.

No story has no authors. But sometimes authors don't really know whatwhen they're writing at all.

[binkachu]

things i like about myself now that I'm eating more and getting better

-I have energy to dance to my favourite songs

-I can enjoy good meals with mah frieendss

-I literally don't have a scale anymore so I can't know that big scary number and it doesn't exist for me

-I can bring up to 3 full bags of groceries up 2 flights of stairs and feel all macho and strong

-I can open jars (most of them) and reach higher places (most of them) when my sister asks me to

-I feel less faint during the summer everytime I stand up woo hoo!

-I don't have to worry about my clothes fitting right cause I have both baggy and tighter stuff and can always change things up!

-I know every mirror warps my perception someway so I don't have to focus on the reflection in mine

-I can always try new cuisines and find new comfort foods (im looking at you butter chicken)

-My skin is better and my face is slightly fuller

-I'm not scared to gain weight cause I'm kinda curious to see what I look like curvier and fuller ngl

-I've been reintroducing some fear foods here and there

-I love telling people about my favourite foods and restaurants

-I don't think badly about my belly anymore. It's a kangaroo pouch. It's a motel for all the delicious food I've eaten that day. That lower pouch that never goes away? That's literally my organs. A baby is going do grow in that belly one day hopefully. It's great

-I like the way oversized shirts now hang onto something when I wear them, before they were just like big curtains from my shoulders to my butt

-Less mood swings!

[binkachu]

"Mrs. Pendragon?" -Yes? "That boy is estremely dangerous. His powers are far too great for someone without a heart."

-Howl's Moving Castle

[binkachu]

i can finally listen to until i found you without crying or getting the least bit sad.

dear past me, you did it. you got over it!

[binkachu]

Thoughts that aren't mine on the state of the world

"Fuck your lecture on craft, my people are dying" -Noor Hindi

Colonizers write about flowers.

I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks

seconds before becoming daisies.

I want to be like those poets who care about the moon.

Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons.

It’s so beautiful, the moon.

They’re so beautiful, the flowers.

I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad.

He watches Al Jazeera all day.

I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan.

I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies.

Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound.

When I die, I promise to haunt you forever.

One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.

Marwan Makhoul

In order for me to write poetry that isn't political,

I must listen to the birds

and in order to hear the birds

the warplanes must be silent

I cannot get myself to write much right now. I've decided to read instead. To fill my head with other people's voices, ideas, truths. And to open my eyes as much as possible to reality. Truth is never a complicated issue. Just like in maths, the best explaination to the theorem is always the simplest one. And the simple answer that I can give to the miriad of question that roam everyone's mind is: power. Human are hungry for power. And what a despicable species that makes us. I'll educate myself and go to protests and continue donating and I hope anyone reading this will too. I hope this is only the start of us all caring about worldwide issues and making a difference. But most of all I pray for peace and justice for the Palestinians.

[binkachu]

thing no problem for me. people have problem with thing. people make thing problem for me. thing not problem for me. people make it. me problem the thing. people still think thing problem. thing more problem for people. people bring problem to me. problem responsibility me now. people say "problem no responsibility you". but people ask me fix problem. people angry. thing still no problem for me. me no know what fix. me cry.

[binkachu]

Aaron Freeman, "Planning ahead can make a difference in the end"

"You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen."

I haven't read the whole book but this passage found itself under my eyes somewhere and I instantly loved it.

I've been thinking a lot about what I would want to happen at my funeral lately and this is a new addition. I need someone, perhaps a future dear collegue or physicist friend, to read this aloud if I ever die.

If I ever die before my father I'd want him to chuckle at it, and tear up as he only does when faced with humanity's nothingness compared to science and the big unknown. If I ever die before accomplishing any scientific feat or naming a star after him I'd want him to look at nightsky and name all the stars he doesn't know the name of after me. Or after all the satellite missions he told me about since I was I kid with sparkles in his eyes. I'd want my funeral to take place on a night without clouds.

I'd want my funeral to take place in a church, in front of God even if half the people in my life wouldn't find it any different. I'd want my dearest childhood bestfriends to remember all the mischief we'd get up to in church camp every summer since we were 8. I'd want those memories to fill their heart as tears might fill their eyes.

I'd want my mother to take it easy, if I ever were to pass before her. I sincerely hope I don't, not out of selfishness but out of love for her. I don't want to imagine a day when she doesn't have the thing she dedicated half her life to.

If I ever die before any of my other loved ones that I can't get myself to write about now I'd want them to go out at night and look at the stars more often. My mother always says that when she dies she wants her ashes scattered in the very sea that she grew up near. And that she'd be in the sea for us, that would be the thing that would make us think about her. I've never come to a conclusion to which land I belong to the most, the mountain, my soil, or the sea, my family's roots, so I'd like to think people will find me in the sky. Not too high up. Not as star or constellation or mighty supernova. Wherever they are, I'd just be the nightsky, and I'd like to be remembered that way.

If I ever die I'd want an astrophysicist to speak at my funeral and tell my significant other to dedicate a few comets to me and that if their orbit is elliptical they can be sure they will come around eventually with a set period of orbit. I'd want the astrophysicist to explain to them that no matter if we end up proving the constant expansion of the galaxies into inevitable cold oblivion or imminent infinite implosion of all the matter that exists in one giant loop of big bangs and big crushes, no matter which of those truths is proven to win, we will all meet sooner or later at the end of the universe.

[binkachu]

love in the time of socialism

revolution's a second away.

Two civil wars, half a coup d'etat apart, souls march,

flags fray at the edges

of countries

on battlefields once simply fields

lie soldiers once simply men,

souls die.

Scattered red dots

"Are they bloodsheds or poppies?"

a child

deformed,

wartorn wombs

empty.

"Whatever they're trying to kill it's either not here or it is surviving."

[binkachu]

20/08/23

Ho due preghiere arrotolate su fogli di carta scritti

fitti

fitti.

Ho due pensieri attaccati alle orecchie, mi tirano il cervello

di qua,

di là.

Dondolano i messaggi volando al cielo perdendosi liberi vento sole mezzanotte

dove erano diretti?

Sto perdendo il treno ma accelero lo stesso scivolo marmo dolore freddo calpestata

carta per terra.

Nessun mittente sulle lettere,

le preghiere non hanno autore, hanno solo orecchie disposte ad ascoltare.

[binkachu]

more fleabag quotes cause i actually watched it now

"I think you know how to love better than any of us, that's why you find it all so painful."

"and anyway, that's the very reason why they put rubbers on end of pencils!" "what, to fuck hamsters?" "no, because people make mistakes."

yeah I binged it in one day. it was quite short to be fair.

The first one resonated with me because it's something I've been wanting to hear all this time. However I don't think you can love any *better* than anyone else, you can just love differently and more deeply. But that doesn't necessarily make one love better than the other. It only makes it more painful when that love faulters. It's human nature, almost a businessy-kinda-nature for us. We put more eggs in one basket and we expect them to oneday hatch. So we wait. And they don't hatch. Our investments were futile, only that the real investment is our heart. And while money can come back around, just like luck does, our love can't. It's an everflowing waterfall that never stops giving, yet the river it creates can forever change path once something happens. And the water flow will be painful for a while after. But water smooths all surfaces over time, just as love does, I think (I hope).

The second one I found 1) hilarious and 2) so pungent and clever. Boo's character is really underdeveloped in the series in my opinion, but we know just enough about her that the message becomes all the more powerful. People make mistakes. Fleabag makes mistakes from the first episode to the last. Hell, she (spoiler) ends up keeping the damn sculpture she stole in the first episode of the first season and actually steals it again in the last one. Of course that has its meaning too but that's not what I'm trying to get at. The characters in Fleabag are all flawed, all of them. They're all unpleasant people who have major contradictions and problems in their life that are as apparent to Fleabag as to the viewer. Yet empathy and character growth aren't made to be the center of attention, they don't move the show's plot. Mistakes do. And they sometimes determine the course of our life as well. Whether it's regrets of thing we have done, of things we haven't had the guts to do, failed attempts or missed opportunities or just one of those fucking nights you'd rather not remember. Mistakes run our life. It's the way some of us got here in the first place. And so we put rubbers at the end of pencils. We designed a thing, the pencil, that also considers the possibility of its incorrect use in its design and incorporates the solution. There's no ctrl+z command in life but there are rubbers at the end of pencils. Maybe designing our life, directing our show with the possibility of mistakes integrated in the plot could benefit us.

as long as we don't fuck hamsters. that is unforgivable.

[binkachu]

"In the future, there is a small, quiet room that is just yours, where you are safe and you are free. In that room your shoulders will finally start to come down from around your ears. Nobody can come into that room unless you let them. In that clean quiet place, you will work and you will study. You will love and you will heal. I know this is true because I am there with you. [..] Your future self."

-Jennifer Peepas

This piece really resonated with me as it describes a longing I've had for a while. As long as I can remember, in fact. I don't feel 100% at home anywhere anymore. My hometown room feels distant, too colorful and too bright as were the teenage emotions I experienced in it. When my childhood friends come to visit they still view it as my room but I feel like I don't anymore. It's past me's room, because it stayed the same as it was.

On the other hand my new room isn't me yet. And it's not because of the lack of experiences associated with it. God knows I've cried some sour tears on that pillow and banged my head on that desk. Maybe it's because I haven't let any new, close, deserving people into that room yet. Maybe I feel like such a different person from who I was a year ago and I know deep down I haven't shown that new side of me to anyone yet. Why? Perhaps I don't feel complete yet. I am still changing and evolving into the next me, while under the impression that she hasn't come out yet so it's not time for new people to get to know her. I know it doesn't work like that, but I can't shake the feeling.

In the future there is a quiet, clean room, where my pc is finally set up and flowers are blooming outside the window. That pesky blank wall is decorated with memories I haven't lived yet and a bed for a cat that doesn't exist yet sits beside mine.

My future self looks back and sees the room emptier, as it was before, and maybe she smiles at how far we've managed to come.

Everything falls into place eventually.