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Sylvia Plath, in a letter to Edward Cohen dated 11th September 1950; featured in The Letters of Sylvia Plath: vol. I: 1940 1956

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Fran Drescher, president of the SAG-AFTRA, in her strike announcement speech

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lil feets

from here

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This is a "demo" of a song that I wrote a couple of months ago, so I apologise in advance for the low-quality of the whole thing (try to imagine it as if it was Lo-Fi). I originally created this account because I wanted to use it as my main account to share my music, but I've had a hard time doing it.

I always have been way too self-conscious about myself, and rather overly self-conscious about the things that I create, though. Nonetheless, life goes on and I finally decided to upload a little bit of what I'm actually passionate about. --- Early Spring Prayer

I have felt cold  While gazing the lights, And my mind stumbles  on a past left behind.

Moon sees from above, Resurrecting my despair. Filling my anger, Spitting on my fate.

My sight has become so tender And my shape so bizarre, I'll let this night pass 'Cause was not sweet at all.

May the dawn bloom And lifts up my blue soul, While no one calls back, While I just wait here.

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Once you see that no one's coming back you gotta keep it to yourself. But I am lying, melting into my bed with something pulling my chest down, sinking my self and my heart deep down the depths of the ground. Where no one notices the dirt, the dust, the bones, or time. I don't see and I don't hear. Light has dimmed and becomes a burden all over a narrowed dissatisfaction. My mind –my mind– how easy will be to keep my self solid and static as a rock that tears and wears against the sharp aquatic blades of a river of abandonment; shaping, polishing static grief.

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the older i get the more sensitive i become to warm genuine words, like wow you really think that kindly of me? hold up, lemme cry

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Grace Jones Source

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My last friendships will be the p0rnbots that follow my account.

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-Ma’am, you and… your pig can’t be here. -Is it that I can’t be here… or that I’m not allowed to be here? See I can physically be here. But what you meant to say is that you’re not allowing me to be here.

Stephanie Hsu as Joy Jobu Tupaki in Everything Everywhere All At Once

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hey

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¿De verdad la tristeza es exclusivamente femenina? Parece que - a reservar de sonar, como muchas dirían, otro onvre adjudicándose un victimismo imaginario - no se habla de los hombres que sufrimos de depresión de la misma manera en que se habla de las mujeres con depresión. Siempre se termina limitando a una serie de estadísticas; siempre termina siendo algo que te encuentras en las páginas de deconstrucción: "Los hombres también lloran, también sufren, también se su1c1d4n, etc."; PTM, no me digas. Yo pensé que el sentimiento aspero de sentirme carente felicidad y que me hace ver al ser más horrible y poco digno de amor en el espejo era parte de mis personality traits. Y es que me he despertado tantas veces en la madrugada asustado, sudando y llorando por soñar que se mu3r3 mi mamá, mi novia, mis amigas, mis tías... o me la he pasado trasnochando pensando en esas familias que se convierten en un nudo de cólera, impotencia y tristeza porque encontraron a alguien a quién amaban entre un montón de basura v10l4d4s, d3scu4rt1z4d4s y se me parte del alma. Me entristece y me altera que exista gente (especialmente hombres) así de 3stúpid4m3nt3 banales, insensibles y monstruosos. Con todo este contexto, no veo razón para que ustedes, chicas, no sé sientan ofendidas, enojadas y hartas de vivir entre tanta m13rd4. No es difícil entenderlo (desde mi otredad). Pero, de verdad ¿alguien me lloraría? ¿De verdad trascendería a algo mi mu3rt3? ¿Alguien acaso diría sobre mí: "este tipo (otro XY que le gustan las mujeres) fue un ejemplo de que la depresión anda ahí", crawling inside people's hearts, no matter they gender or whatever sh1t they have inside their pants? Tengo un horror - quizás desmedido - a sentirme el ser menos querido; un ser que es tan desagradable que no merece (y nunca merecerá) alguien que lo ame, que esté junto a él. Y obviamente me entristece. Y obviamente me hace pensar que necesito paz, paz absoluta, paz de la que no me tenga que preocupar por levantarme. Hablen más de esto. Yo sé que esto a cierto punto también es patriarcal y, sí, sí pienso que a fin de cuentas todos vivimos en el mismo inf13rn0, lidiando cada quien con m13rd4 distinta. Pero estoy tan harto de pensar que no importo, y que soy el pedazo de polvo más 1ns1gn1f1cante del universo. Hay muchas cosas por vivir. Abracen también a los hombres que no tienen a nadie. La soledad, junto con todas sus ventajas y virtudes, también puede ser un 4rm4 horrorosa.

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How does ANYONE deal with rejection? Especially if that rejection comes from someone you were (culturally) assuming that will be always for you? I am so tired of feeling rejected; I am so tired of feeling lonely; I am so fucking tired of feeling sad. I know I am supposed to deal with all of this shit as an adult, but does that shit even exist? She refuses to talk to me. I don't even know if I did something wrong - in any case I committed the stupid act of putting her over my own integrity. And fucking nobody talks about how tired is to be a sensitive/good/compassionate person. No one cares about that shit, cause most of the time I just got labelled as a fucking cis. And that isn't true, at least not true in the nasty way. It seems it is better for them to cut each other's head. Not sure how many fucking times I will have to be crushed by people that I love. "But even though I meet at each and every corner with nothing but disaster..." I swear I ain't bad. I am sure that most of the horribly sins I've committed are due ignorance. And I mean, I know I just have to deal it with myself. No one is fucking saving me, and no one will ever do that for me. It looks nice, though, when someone demonstrates care and interest in you. The only thing that my skin and soul ever needed. In any case, that's adulting, knowing that no one is around the corner, is only you and it is, both, wonderful and tragically ironic. I really wonder if beautiful people ever feel this way, especially when they are seconded by ocean of followers.