#In spite of everything

[summerwages]

keep your chin up...

[hooid]

To all of my leftist friends, and especially queer ones:

Please, don't let yourselves give in to despair.

He won, and there's not really anything that we can do about it now.

Help your community members, organize, and let your loved ones know that as long as we have each other it WILL be okay. It's gonna be a tough one. The toughest one yet, maybe, but we will win one day.

Get close to the people you love and be with them, help each other not succumb to the pain and despair that tonight's results have provoked.

Because that's what fascism wants. It wants you sad, powerless and cynic because it knows that it won't prevail if we're together to stop it. But we must stay earnest.

We must not let apathy win. Because fascism wins in apathy.

Do it for your loved ones. Your community and the people that you don't even know and will never know. Your queer neighbors and their pets and their friends and families and the kids that they'll have

And do it for yourself. Go ahead and live, because as a trans person the most radical thing you can do is stay alive.

Solve the world. One conversation at a time. I love you.

[phemiec]

how's life right now, phem?

fucking amazing actually. The worlds going to shit and physically I’m having some troubles, but on the whole I love my job, I love my wife, I love my son, I love my home and my friends, I love my entire existence and every day I wake up thankful and elated that I’ve lived to see this incredible point in my life. ❤️

[cyber-corp]

Saw an old man with a shirt that said “ALIVE OUT OF SPITE” and it’s the most unintentionally profound phrase I think I’ve seen

[usefulquotes7]

In spite of everything, I still believe people are really good at heart. Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl

[illuminatedquill]

it’s you

it’s me

[l8tof1]

@ silverstone why would you send me this

[lucy-moderatz]

[sarroora]

[dent-de-leon]

Every second Lucien spends in this bedroom makes his very skin crawl. Everything is too vibrant, too ridiculously colorful and childish. A monument to a glorified empty shell, a hollow puppet. A collection of useless trinkets the mage held onto as he wallowed in guilt, clinging to a forgotten memory. He saw the way the wizard's gaze fell upon him in stolen moments, softening with such wistful regret. The urge to just risk it all and reach out, beg a dead man to come home--

Lucien's heart seizes, caught in a vice, that little songbird fluttering desperately in its cage. Warring warmth and despair well up in his chest, constricting his every breath, claws and teeth tearing into his flesh from beneath the skin, beyond the grave. Love. Joy. Home. Magician— A mindless chant burning into his brain, bleeding in from the abyss. 

Loss, longing—ghosting at his breath, settling in his skin. Pleading eyes and bandaged hands, bloodied split lips pressed flush to warm skin, reassurances and promises and time sifting through his talons. 

Lucien sees him. Sees the delicate hairline fractures when everything starts to fall apart. Spiderweb cracks splintering out and cascading across his broken soul like a shattered mirror. And beside the shade, cradled so delicately in his own hands, held frozen in a gentle embrace—lies that bloody wizard. 

He scoffs at that. “You fell for him? Actually thought you could care about someone who would love you back? Like a real person?” 

White hot rage flares, the shard cutting away at his own heart. 

Lucien hums, claws grazing over a fine velvet tapestry, trailing down meticulously painstaking embroidery and glistening rhinestones. He sinks his talons into the fabric and rips right through, reveling in the sound as it all tears apart. And as he does, he lets distant memories drift back into focus. Playful banter, fond endearments--a warmth and rush of affection, grounding reassurance--his piercing gaze locked on those fearful, haunted eyes, tracking him for any sign of weakness--

Fear curls around the shard like a burial shroud, veiling him from Lucien’s gaze, trying desperately to hide his bleeding heart. 

[b0bthebuilder35]

[prayerandzoloft]

“He brought me out and made me climb into a garret. Through the open window one could see the whole city spread out, some wooden scaffoldings, and the river on which boats were being unloaded. He bade me be seated.

We were alone. He spoke. From time to time someone would enter, mingle in the conversation, then leave again.

Winter had gone; spring had not yet come. The branches of the trees lay bare, without buds, in the cold air full of sunshine.

The light of day would arise, shine forth in splendor, and fade away; then the moon and the stars would enter through the window. And then once more the dawn would come up.

At times he would fall silent, take some bread from a cupboard, and we would share it. The bread really had the taste of bread. I have never found that taste again.

He would pour out some wine for me, and some for himself–wine which tasted of the sun and of the soil upon which this city was built.

At other times we would stretch ourselves out on the floor of the garret and sweet sleep would enfold me. Then I would wake and drink in the light of the sun.

He had promised to teach me, but he did not teach me anything. We talked about all kinds of things, in a desultory way, as do old friends.

One day he said to me: “Now go.” I fell down before him, I clasped his knees, I implored him not to drive me away. But he threw me out on the stairs. I went down unconscious of anything, my heart as it were in shreds. I wandered along the streets. Then I realized that I had no idea where his house lay.

I have never tried to find it again. I understood that he had come to me by mistake. My place is not in that garret. It can be anywhere–in a prison cell, in one of those middle-class drawing-rooms full of knick-knacks and red plush, in the waiting room of a station–anywhere, except in that garret.

Sometimes, I cannot help trying, fearfully and remorsefully, to repeat to myself a part of what he said to me. How am I to know if I remember rightly? He is not there to tell me.

I know well that he does not love me. How could he love me? And yet deep down within me something, a particle of myself, cannot help thinking, with fear and trembling, that perhaps, in spite of everything, he loves me.”

- Simone Weil

[crisisonmyearth]

Realising that my brother will never hold similar compassion as me for my mother because he is a man. He can empathise, but he can't see her. He can't see the desperation that lingers in her face, he can't see because it's not something he can even begin to imagine. He can't see because that can never be him. I can see her, and the girl she was, and the dreams she had and I can't fault her for the anger she carries. I can't fault her if she hates me because I'm living the life she wanted. And I understand all the she is, is the price of being a woman, of being a mother. Talking to her and asking her what her dreams are and realising she put her life on hold for all of us, I would be angry at the world too. And at the end of the day, that's why I'd never hate her, or carry anger towards her, because all I see when I look at her is the little girl with all these big dreams, met with constant disappointment. The little girl that had to grow up too fast. I sometimes see that little girl in myself, in the way I chase my dreams so maddeningly, in fear of losing my opportunity, of losing my chance to have my dreams. I've always feared becoming her, when all she is is a victim, a victim of a fate she had no part in. How can I hate the person in front of the gun when me and my siblings unknowingly pulled the trigger? I wish I could hold her the way she holds me, but I fear my touch may never bring her comfort, only remind her of all she has lost.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

In the midst of the charnel grounds of war, climate catastrophe, AI and disinformation, political untrustworthiness, a beautiful dog bounds toward a glorious dusk.

[Joan Halifax on twitter]

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 To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace. -Milan Kundera

[ponytailcoby]

I'm kinda sad I won't be doing any favorite moments gifsets for this season

[final-reverie]

Happy Little Ladies Day!