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this what im going thru rn. if anyone gaf

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i express my feelings through other peoples text posts

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affirmations: you are not real, you don’t have feelings, you don’t want anything, this will be over soon

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the domesticated angel bleeds out by june hart (image id in alt)

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change is inevitable

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Anne de Marcken, from It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over [ID'd]

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Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “Of Wildflowers”

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Tea

by Leila Chatti

Five times a day, I make tea. I do this because I like the warmth in my hands, like the feeling of self-directed kindness. I’m not used to it — warmth and kindness, both — so I create my own when I can. It’s easy. You just pour water into a kettle and turn the knob and listen for the scream. I do this five times a day. Sometimes, when I’m pleased, I let out a little sound. A poet noticed this and it made me feel I might one day properly be loved. Because no one is here to love me, I make tea for myself and leave the radio playing. I must remind myself I am here, and do so by noticing myself: my feet are cold inside my socks, they touch the ground, my stomach churns, my heart stutters, in my hands I hold a warmth I make. I come from a people who pray five times a day and make tea. I admire the way they do both. How they drop to the ground wherever they are. Drop pine nuts and mint sprigs in a glass. I think to care for the self is a kind of prayer. It is a gesture of devotion toward what is not always beloved or believed. I do not always believe in myself, or love myself, I am sure there are times I am bad or gone or lying. In another’s mouth, tea often means gossip, but sometimes means truth. Despite the trope, in my experience my people do not lie for pleasure, or when they should, even when it might be a gesture of kindness. But they are kind. If you were to visit, a woman would bring you a tray of tea. At any time of day. My people love tea so much it was once considered a sickness. Their colonizers tried, as with any joy, to snuff it out. They feared a love so strong one might sell or kill their other loves for leaves and sugar. Teaism sounds like a kind of faith I’d buy into, a god I wouldn’t fear. I think now I truly believe I wouldn’t kill anyone for love, not even myself — most days I can barely get out of bed. So I make tea. I stand at the window while I wait. My feet are cold and the radio plays its little sounds. I do the small thing I know how to do to care for myself. I am trying to notice joy, which means survive. I do this all day, and then the next.

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“You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch. Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy. You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like. If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.”

— Julien Smith, The Flinch (via wnq-anonymous)

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sevdaliza !!

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women in STEM (shitty posture, tired all the time, eyebags, miserable)

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heart - shaped scallion found In pho . reblog for good luck & yummy soup 500000 forwver

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Motto

by Bertolt Brecht tr. John Willett

In the dark times, will there also be singing? Yes, there will be singing About the dark times.

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perhaps nothing else on earth matters, besides the love you take in, and the love you put out.

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the overwhelming feeling of sadness sometimes when someone treats me with kindness

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is this a life? i don’t know. i make another cup of coffee. stare at a tree from my balcony. write in my journal. take a hot shower. i call my sister and say nothing of value. she listens anyway. i make another coffee. read a book that gives me bad dreams. pick up my pen to write and put it back down. another flip of the calendar i carry in the center of my chest. i am learning to let my heart open up again

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i always mean it when i say i love you btw