Reading has been really hard for me since breaking down/burning out/getting sick/etc.
There is so much joy, knowledge, and power I’m missing out on because so many of the books I dream of reading are not available as audiobooks.
This is not a mistake. Ableism is an intentional force.
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I wanna sit and study textbooks and shit again as was my passtime years ago along with my general art, but the last time i like grabbed books for that was years ago so the books I have are on art history and a few mythology reference books and m like.... ough but i want... i want different subjects nowwww....
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i haven't had a full 8 hours of sleep at all yet for the first week of trialing this CPAP machine, 5 hours tends to be the max, but i am still more awake and capable than i have been in like 6 years. maybe more. i showered, vacuumed, cleaned, went to an appointment, and hung out with an irl friend for a little yesterday. any one of these things would've wiped me out for days before. now i'm just.. fine. maybe if my baseline were different i might consider myself tired today idk. the improvement has been so sudden and so drastic it's completely taken me offguard. it makes sense when i think of it as years of compounding sleep deprivation from progressively more terrible sleep quality but j e e z i wouldn't think a week of decent-quality-but-not-enough sleep would change my life so quickly lmao
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“There was a time, Becket knew, when holy people were not safe. When they were not tame. When they were not the gentle shepherds, but the keepers of mysteries and the guardians of fire. As a priest, he turned wine into blood and bread into flesh—why had that ever become a tame thing, a safe thing? God was not safe. The numinous was not safe.
So why then had he hemmed in his faith with safety? His hunger with rules? His zeal with bloodless, methodical praxis?
He loved rituals, rites, and liturgies, that was unchanged. He loved the motions of them, the ancient words, the less-than-ancient words made to sound older than they were. But he’d been reduced by them, he saw now. Or perhaps not him personally, but his understanding, his relationship with God and belief. He’d hoped to wrestle it into submission, that relationship, and make it something that matched the way other people believed. He’d hoped to hide his zeal, stuff it into the corners of himself, bind it and lash it to his heart so it could never make it to his mouth to his hands and deeds. So that it could never make itself known.
All he’d wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to believe like other people did. Communally and pleasantly, and with glad hearts that could easily bear the distance between themselves and God.
Not wild and alone. Chasing after God like an abandoned bridegroom. … Yes, the zeal was dangerous. Yes, it could consume him if he wasn’t strong enough.
But he was tired of fighting it. Tired of pushing away love and sex and feral fun, tired of keeping his hunger for God locked in a box because he felt like he had to.”
~ Door of Bruises by Sierra Simone
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