"I miss you. I do." She whispered over the phone.
"But if I spend all of my time waiting for you, whole seasons will pass without me noticing, and you may be beautiful, but you will never be more beautiful than the first snowflakes of winter or the summer light cascading through the windows."
"I could wait for an eternity if only I knew you were coming," she said, "But time is precious, and darling you are not worth the spring blossoms. You are not worth the autumn leaves."
The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it’s not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of another person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other.
Why is love permeated with the rhetoric of giving away pieces of our selves? I don’t know about you, but I want my hands and my lips. I want all of me. My body doesn’t belong to you and loving you doesn’t mean I have to give it to you. Love means you get my respect, my attention, and my occasional thoughts. Love means choosing to let you in to see the esoteric parts of me. These I give to you in good faith that you will in some measure return the favor. But it does not mean you get my heart. That I will always retain ownership of. It beats for me. With or without you, I am a whole being. I will not give pieces of myself away.
And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
my favorite part of concerts is when the band plays a song everyone knows so everyone’s singing along all out of tune but then the singer stops singing and they point the mic at the crowd and u just hear everyone in the crowd singing the words to the music and u see the smiles on the band members’ faces bc they know people care about their music and everyone’s just so happy who cares about anything else
White people get so angry at the phrase, “You cannot be racist towards white people.”
I will never understand why.
Why are you so angry that you are being treated as actual human beings? You are not reduced to caricatures, but portrayed as characters. You are treated fairly, judged not by your skin tone, but by the ways that you carry yourselves, by your actions.
Why do you want to experience racism so badly? It is not fun to be mocked, dehumanized, attacked, killed, incarcerated simply for daring to exist. It is not fun to know nothing of your history or family because it was torn apart, whether through distance or death. It is not fun to hear, at every turn, comments reminding you of your lesser status as humans.
Do you really want to turn on the tv, open a magazine, watch a movie, play a video game, and not see yourself? Or, even better, to only see yourself as a criminal, as a drunk, a mocking stereotype, or as someone to be killed off? Or would you rather see fleshed out, well-written characters with lives and personalities and feelings? I know which I’d rather pick.
If I were a white person, the phrase, “You cannot be racist towards white people,” would be the best thing I could ever hear.
You belong here, not because you are lovely but because you are more than that.
I wish I hadn’t shown you the darkest parts of me.
today i had an impromptu interview for a volunteer opportunity. it’s at a new company (soon to be franchise) where i’ll be working with kids on the spectrum 3 times a week and giving a social skills clinic once a week. while i was super excited to get accepted as a volunteer, i was even happier when i got complimented by my interviewer after. i got told by the doctor who interviewed me that she usually does not hire people right away, but apparently i presented myself very well, carried myself professionally and came off as very friendly and bubbly, and as a result she felt i’d be a good fit and hired me on the spot. i couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for hours after that and thinking about it now has me smiling. i’m usually pretty quiet in nature, but i’m proud of how far i’ve come from being the anxious, shy, little girl i once was.
I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t.
If You Have Ever Been Compared To Cocoa, Coffee Beans, Peanut Butter. If You Have Ever Been Compared To A Dog Of A Mixed Breed.
When you were seven and a half, you heard every other way they made fun of the way your skin grew darker after recess. You are eight and burnt toast. You are nine and the outside of their favourite cookie. They pull you apart. Plucking off your eyelashes like they were pulling legs off of spiders.
When you are fifteen and two months, you hear every other way they call in attempts to make you turn around during lunch break. You are sixteen and cat calls. You are seventeen and ass grabs. They think stampede means rodeo. They think water pours from every tap ready to consume with the same mouths that shout blasphemies - or would if, they knew of the universe.
Not being a part of a conditioned, one-dog-and-two-and-a-half-kids life is a curse, they say - they are lying.
Honey, belonging is a warning carefully constructed into a word. It smiles as it tells you: you will disintegrate with slow decay from the constant chase of the one thing you will be longing for and never attain. Do not be downtrodden by those who do not even know how to be a part of themselves.