Liz Climo on Tumblr.
this really cheered me up
These are beautiful.
why don’t tv writers realize there are better storylines than cheating and death
This semester, I’m going to be delving headfirst back into the world of language with a course on Old English. It’s been a while since I’ve stretched that part of my brain, but I’m excited. Language fascinates me. It’s the construction of ideas into an agreed upon format recognizable to the group that creates it. It breaks down images, emotions, actions and tries to make them tangible in order to…
When doctors stick their fists into the chest cavities of human beings, they leave something behind, some sadness that glues itself to the insides of the operated ribs. It is as if your heart knows it has been exposed to the sky and it is mourning the loss of light. It grows dark when they break you open.
For some reason, you know the call is coming before it does. He says it’s over between you and him and you thought you were ready for it but instead you find yourself shaking and sobbing with the same nauseous out-of-control feeling as when you were seven and spun over your handlebars and hit your head against the concrete. His words are a high-speed collision without a helmet.
This is what it feels like when you put the phone down: it feels as if you are lying with cold feet on the crinkled paper of a hospital table and there is an ongoing surgery occurring without anesthesia. Every doctor has his face. You picture the small moments that are being carefully plucked from your sternum - no more quiet moments while you sort clean clothing, no more ice cream trips at two in the morning, no more waking up before him to see the sun shift through his eyelashes, no more summer days with bare legs tangled on beaches, no more kissing him, no more curling up near him, no more him.
And you hate that you want it all back, that you would take everything you have and trade it for another chance to feel him beside you. You are not someone’s princess and you never were. Your mother did not raise you with a wolf in your chest so you could howl over losing a man.
But here you are, open-heart operation in progress while he cleanly snips out his connection to you. That’s it. No more future.
He leaves you there, bones bent back to make room for the hole he has punched in you. You are the one in charge of your recovery, but you have shaky hands and there aren’t enough band-aids for a hurt like this. Every time you make a peanutbutter sandwich or listen to your favorite music or stare up at the ceiling, you remember him and the stitches come undone again.
And your friends grow weary of hearing your story and hearing how you called him drunk and hearing how you hate him and hearing how you love him in an almost impossibly unending way and hearing how you’ll never be the same and hearing how you’re feeling better really and hearing how you’re back in the same sad space and your mouth grows wearing of saying his name like each letter was a prison wall and
one day you don’t speak of him at all. You carry the scar but you no longer flinch when the sharpness of this world brushes against your chest. You are wolf, and you might be wounded, but one day you will get over it.
You are still waiting for when that moment hits.
People will fight for their freedom if people try to take it from them. But if you cause enough trouble, people will willingly give up their freedom for a more secure world.
I didn’t really know what to expect when I got here. The first day, I was physically and mentally exhausted. I was completely unsure whether I had made the right decision once N had left, and I fully realised how very alone I was. I jumped to worse-case scenarios. I imagined each and every way I might fail while here. It was a hard night. I’d officially said goodbye to the last shred of home I’d…
This is a lion making a kill in the wild. I know it’s very graphic but I think it’s important to show just how brutal nature can be.
My book, my books / Mi libro, mis libros (ilustración de Claudia Deliguomini)
haha always fucking reblog
Journalist and artist Shirin Barghi has created a gripping, thought-provoking series of graphics that not only examines racial prejudice in today’s America, but also captures the sense of humanity that often gets lost in news coverage. Titled “Last Words,” the graphics illustrate the last recorded words by Brown and other young black people — Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant and others — who have been killed by police in recent years.
Franz Kafka, the story goes, encountered a little girl in the park where he went walking daily. She was crying. She had lost her doll and was desolate.
Kafka offered to help her look for the doll and arranged to meet her the next day at the same spot. Unable to find the doll he composed a letter from the doll and read it to her when they met.
"Please do not mourn me, I have gone on a trip to see the world. I will write you of my adventures." This was the beginning of many letters. When he and the little girl met he read her from these carefully composed letters the imagined adventures of the beloved doll. The little girl was comforted.
When the meetings came to an end Kafka presented her with a doll. She obviously looked different from the original doll. An attached letter explained: “my travels have changed me… “
Many years later, the now grown girl found a letter stuffed into an unnoticed crevice in the cherished replacement doll. In summary it said: “every thing that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.”
For me there are two wise lessons in this story: Grief and loss are ubiquitous even for a young child. And the way toward healing is to look for how love comes back in another form. - May Benatar