#i KNOW what the world and it’s people is like

[frankenfran]

oh my godddd the people in the notes of that pokemon anti homeless bench are going to kill me. they're so eager to come up with lore explanations or dismissive hand waves instead of looking at it for what it is. anti homeless benches are so unbelievably pervasive that, whether intentional or not, a designer made the benches in a fantasy game mirror the real world in a jarring way. it's an ugly and uncomfortable juxtaposition that really sticks out in a heavily sanitised and safe kids game like pokemon. i don't think this is some grand statement on gamefreak's politics or anything like that, rather a scathing unintentional indictment on the cruelty of a world that intentionally creates public spaces hostile to homeless people leaking into an idyllic fantasy world where humans live in harmony with nature.

maybe the designer is so used to seeing anti homeless benches that they've never thought about it too much, maybe they knew thought it would make it more immersive and get people talking about the inherent cruelty of such a thing, maybe a million other things. the beauty is that we'll never know. the only thing that will remain is the genuinely profound and baffling phrase "lumiose city anti homeless benches" and the dizzying implications that come with it. banksy couldn't eat her shit

[abedmajeed]

What Strength Really Means 💪

Hey everyone, my name is Abdelmajed, and this is my story.

I grew up in Gaza, a place that was once full of life. I had dreams, hopes, and a deep love for my home. But in a matter of months, everything changed. I lost my home. I lost my sense of security. I lost people I loved more than anything in the world. 💔

People often talk about strength like it’s something you can see—something loud, something powerful. But I’ve learned that true strength is often quiet.

Strength is waking up every morning when you don’t know what the day will bring. Strength is carrying the memories of those you’ve lost, while still choosing to move forward. Strength is believing in a better tomorrow, even when today feels impossible.

I don’t share my story for sympathy. I share it because I know that there is still kindness in this world. I still believe in people, in love, in hope. And I know that no matter what happens, I will keep going. Because that’s what strength really is.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Just knowing that someone out there is listening means the world to me. 💙

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: break-up, angst, hung-up yandere, anger issues, insecurity, threats to regrets

♡ GN reader

Thinking about pro-athlete ex-boyfriend… 

You know, the one you broke up with because he couldn't focus on anything but his career, the one you just couldn’t stand by and watch any longer as he nearly ran his health into the ground—not to mention your relationship—all to reach his goals.

He’d been so mean—meaner than you ever thought possible when you told him you couldn’t do this anymore—said it was a real class act of you to abandon him now when it mattered most. He’d made it about you not wanting a no-known sportsman for a boyfriend, how you never believed in him anyway, how you never cheered for him, how he thinks you don’t even want to see him succeed. 

He’d been so loud and so ugly you’d been in shock for weeks afterward, unable to wrap your head around it. You didn’t even dare tell anyone—feeling it was a beast of burden you ought to keep for yourself. Oddly enough, you felt that if anyone knew or saw him like that, it would be not just detrimental to him and his image but embarrassing for you both.

And you hadn't spoken to him since. At least not face-to-face. He’d sent you a few drunk texts then and there, which you’d replied to in short, though mostly ignored. You’d thought about blocking him at one point, but you didn’t want to be dramatic, either. And suppose, in some way, you were still waiting for an apology.

But months passed, and nothing like it ever came, and so, instead of being bitter, you accepted that was just how the two of you ended. And that was that. 

Still, it's a little awkward. You wonder if you should congratulate him on his rise in popularity, how he’s finally getting all those long hours spent training back in full—but somehow, you feel it would just sound petty coming from you. And so, you don’t bother.

He’s got other people in his life cheering him on now—he doesn’t need a measly text from his ex. No, it's better to leave it be, is what you think.

Which is why it’s surprising when you get the dinner invitation. 

And following the initial surprise, you don’t really know what to expect of it either. But you end up accepting—some part out of curiosity, wondering what he might want after all this time, and another part hopeful it was to finally address the awful break up so that the both of you could move on without it hanging heavy over your heads and hearts.

This, however, was the last thing you had in mind when sitting down with him for the first time in a long time.

“Will you marry me?”

Your whole body flares up with something reminiscent of the feeling when you trip and fall—that type of split burn that rushes through you from head to toe and then leaves you feeling cold all over. Heart in your throat, you’re speechless.

Or no, you just don’t know where to begin.

“What are you doing?” you end up accusing—a little too harshly, maybe, but who could blame you? Looking around, you’re glad your table’s in a more private sector of the restaurant before you look back at him, eyes wide and brows knit. 

“I–we broke up a year ago and haven’t seen each other since—and you’re—” Your eyes fall back to the thing in his hands. It’s an outrageous ring. “Asking me to marry you?”

He makes no move to withdraw the offer—keeping his hands where they are, on your side of the table. “You said yes to the dinner. That must mean something. I thought—”

“Yeah. It means that I still worry about you,” you say. “It doesn't mean–”

“I fought my way up. I’m finally at the top,” he cuts you off in earnest. “I’m the best, and the world finally knows it now–”

“I don't care about any of that,” you state, feeling it should have been something you told him from the very beginning. “I'm sorry. But I never cared about you being the best. I just wanted…”

You just wanted the two of you to be like other couples—together and happy. You just wanted that to be enough, but it never was for him.

“Never mind…” you end up saying. “I think I should go.”

You’re about to get up when his hand, suddenly around your wrist, tightens in a harsh grip.

“I don't think you understand,” he utters, voice lowered with a hint of a growl. “It’s either this ring or I bury you in rumors that won’t leave you a moment’s worth of peace.” 

You go stiff while looking back at him.

Did he just… did he just threaten you?

You blink. He's got that same warped expression you remember from the last time you saw him, that very odd look as if the guy you know has been switched out with someone entirely different.

Only this time, it just as quickly disappears, and he lets go of your wrist, quickly pulling his hand to himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that–I’m just—” he apologizes with a stutter, looking startled.

He puts his face in his hands. Then there's a sound—close to a sob.

“I’m just a mess without you.”

Goosebumps rise on the surface of your skin when hearing it. And swallowing thickly, you sit back down again, albeit a bit begrudgingly. But spotting how he trembles, you just can’t stop feeling sorry for him.

You sigh. “No, you’re not. You just…” Reaching across the table, you stroke his arm. “You just lose your head a little sometimes, that’s all.” 

He peaks up from his hands. A sheen under his eyes reflects the ceiling light, and your heart twists in your chest.

He really is a mess.

“But I know you…” you try smiling. “You were always destined for greatness.”

He takes your offered hand in his, stroking it, then sniffs, voice fluttering weakly, “Yeah, well…”

He keeps his head low, resting it in his other hand as if he just couldn't muster the strength to sit straight or even attempt to pull himself together.

“If I'm such a great guy, why wouldn’t you stay?”

He sounds as if he’s been holding things back for the entirety of the year since you left. Broken now... it's all spilling out.

“Because," you start, even though your throat’s tight and you’re fighting back tears of your own, your mind hasn’t changed.

You didn’t come here to get back together. 

"You want to go places, I just can’t follow.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Aki ♡ BLLK – Reo, Isagi, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Karasu, Shido ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Sakura, Suo, Kaji

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[aeternus-art]

What Does Shifting Feel Like? A Deep Dive Into the/my Process

  "I am telling you, there are worlds within worlds within worlds, and they are all here - right here - just like turning on a radio. You turn it ever so slightly, and you have a new wave length and a new station coming in, bringing in something entirely different. And they are not interfering with each other!" -Neville Goddard

 (This is copy-pasted from my post on reddit which is why the terminology is different. I was going to change it back, but I kind of like it the different perspective. If anyone gets confused on the terms though, here is a glossary for clarity)

Worlds Within Worlds- the infinite realities you have access to

World Walking- shifting 

Void- Just you in the present moment. Think peaceful bird watching except your watching yourself internally. (putting this here because a lot of people assume the Void is a place, not a state of awareness which is why people struggle- they're trying to shift in order to shift. If you are a human being, you've accessed the void before and I can say that with absolute certainty. The void is literally the easiest thing ever, people just tend to spread misinfo because they repeat what they've been told. Hopefully this takes it off of pedestal if you found you mistakenly put it on one. 

Look up from your phone at whatever is in front of you right now. Observe it. Boom, present awareness aka void. Easy Peasy.

My post called "the hill at dawn" gives a breakdown of this process and is made to revisit if you find yourself "unable" to access the void. I wrote it in a way that literally walks you right into present awareness.

 I've been accessing and traveling through what Neville refers to as the “worlds within worlds” for years now, and I see so many people overcomplicating the process, so this is the most concise way I can explain how I access the dimensionally larger worlds Neville talks about and what that feeling is like. 

 (before my entire world walking process)- enter the void if I'm not already in it. .

[Before]: starting the process it Feels like "i am going to embody my desired world self"

- not going to “try to”, but literally, as if my thought process was equivalent to a method actor. I simply just assume that I am going to FEEL myself acting as if it were already true(because it is) . I am going to FEEL myself stepping into the role and into the scene. I am going to FEEL that I am that which I desire to be because I am the operant power. I KNOW that I have no limitations of the worlds I am able to access.

[During] the Process: Feels like, "I am my Desired World self"

- it feels normal, it feels plain- because I am already there, literally. Its just about being aware and remembering my true nature. I am nothing but awareness choosing the world in which I will awaken to.I am nothing but awareness choosing what costume I will wear. 

[After] the Process: Feels Like "I am in my Desired World"

Just like that, once that final feeling is felt, I will then open my eyes to a place different from where I was aware of closing them. Notice that feeling like im my Desired World Self comes first. Signs in your 3d dont precede, they follow who you are being. Let go of the expectations you're holding on the 3d, let it do it's thing, and trust that it will catch up to match you because it's the Law and it literally has no other choice. That's literally the whole  of Law of Assumption in a nutshell.  You didn't need to know what gravity was before you started sticking to the earth- and the Law of Assumption is no different.

 Neville Quotes About the Worlds Within Worlds-

" ... Now, I had stepped into a world just as real as this*. I am telling you, there are worlds within worlds within worlds, and they are all here - right here - just like turning on a radio. You turn it ever so slightly, and you have a new wave length and a new station coming in, bringing in something entirely different. And they are not interfering with each other! And these worlds are all here now and they are peopled, just as we are peopling this world, and they are just as real as this world. It's terrestrial and it doesn’t...* you don’t have to walk to it*. I was on the bed. I seemed to walk into it - I would say . . . what? ten feet away, but the same area permeated the bed, and the bed did not obstruct it;* and that world into which I stepped did not obstruct the house that I lived in, in Beverly Hills. It's all here - the whole vast world - worlds within worlds within worlds! ...

... suppose the facts now still deny what you did. It doesn't matter. Let the facts remain; they will dissolve. They will all dissolve because you are going to remain faithful and you will occupy the state*. No longer are you going to construct it and not occupy it. You are going to occupy the state. And as you occupy the state,* it is going to work."

one more time ...suppose the facts now still deny what you did. It doesn't matter. Let the facts remain; they will dissolve. They will all dissolve because you are going to remain faithful and you will occupy the state. No longer are you going to construct it and not occupy it. You are going to occupy the state. And as you occupy the state, it is going to work."

Link to the lecture I pulled this from, see my reading list for more free shifting/law of assumption/ void/ awareness sources for reading and audio

 That is to say, this process is an entirely internal one.[ This means your body doesn't matter either unless you feed into that idea with your attention] World walking works by you remembering (linking @hrrtshape cause she's the founder (?) and just the absolute best) that there are infinite states of "I am" and "you's" that you have access too- you simply decide to become aware of them. It's never about "getting" to a place, or "getting" anything really. It's simply about Being and Remembering. Your mind has direct connection to all the knowledge that has ever existed, and all you have to do to access it is *be* the "I am" that has it- a simple change in costume.

- **If you are struggling to access these worlds, it could be because you're focused on solving issues of the body, rather than just dropping into the void/pure awareness and then putting yourself in the shoes of that which you desire to be. By doing this [staying present], you automatically transcend all the thought/feeling drama, and you can just be yourself. This state is the blank page you write on in order to change your world. 

*You are not your body, or your mind, or your brain. You are just the awareness of those things*

If you use methods/what methods you use is entirely up to you and what you think works best for your body and mind personally.

This is why (in the reality shifting community) we always say to take your Desired Reality off the pedestal. It is not somehow magically better that you- that's just an illusion because you are *just* awareness and an "I am" choosing what to be aware of. The choice is always in your hands, and your hands alone. *There are no limitations outside of the ones you are holding on yourself*

You never stop being you, you simply change who you are being. You are simply putting an Ego on top of your permanent state as pure awareness like a costume. You can take if off and put it on whenever you want. That is to say, there is never a moment where this is impossible for you to do. Impossibility is nothing more than illusion.

  

And lastly, to anyone doubting this, or the ability to shift your awareness and become anything and everything you desire, I have one thing to say: "All conceptions are limitations of the conceiver.”- N.G.

 

 divider credit: [✩₊˚.] [✩₊˚.]

@enchanthings @blinkees⠀⠀⠀⠀

[ms-demeanor]

People say shit like this all the time, but see the thing is right now you're twenty and broke and you don't have any idea what kind of relationships you're going to have in 45 years, whether you became a surrogate uncle to the neighbor's daughter or if you took up a new hobby at fifty and found the love of your life or you've become the volunteer team lead at the library you want to protect funding for.

So you're twenty and broke and you go, it doesn't matter, I'm not going to be alive in 45 years, and if I am and I'm too poor to retire I'll just kill myself. Except you're the neighbor's kid's ride to school and babysitter. You're the one who collected signatures to get the library's hours extended so that people would have someplace warm to go for more of the evening in the winter. You're madly in love with someone who's madly in love with you. So you can kill yourself and let that be your retirement plan, or you can hope that when the neighbor's daughter is out of college she will be able to help you meet ends meet because of your property taxes. Or you have to give up volunteer time because it eats into your hours working at Home Depot. Or your partner has to work longer and harder and delay their retirement, because *you* didn't save because *your* plan was to observe (but certainly not contribute to, because you couldn't even contribute to a savings, let alone a political movement) the overthrow of the global financial system in two generations or to just die.

If this is your attitude i have a few questions:

You're not saving, so clearly you're doing better things with your time and money, so what tangible things are you currently doing to erode capitalism?

Did you happen to be the kind of kid who fucked around and didn't form strong friendships or put an effort in at school because you figured you'd be dead at 20? How's that working out for you?

Do you think it's more arrogant to assume that the world as we know it will be totally upturned in your lifetime, or more lazy to take no responsibility whatsoever in case that doesn't happen?

Fuck off with this shit! You're not forming parallel systems, you can barely muster up the effort to form an opinion.

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Zayne

Summary: It was your anniversary with Zayne. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Zayne Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. Especially Zayne. So I had to adapt the request a bit. Content Warning: injuries, panic, insecurities, self worth issues, Zayne POV

Rafayel version |

Zayne’s apartment smelled like him—clean, crisp, and faintly of the eucalyptus-scented candles he kept on the shelves. You sat on the edge of his couch, smoothing the fabric of your dress down your thighs, nerves making your fingers tremble slightly. The dim light of the chandelier cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the carefully planned surprise you had for him —flowers, his favorite treats, elegant scarves, and jackets you had spent weeks picking out. The final touch was the flexible weekend getaway tickets, somewhere warm and far from the sterility of hospital walls. A place where he could finally rest.

You had gone all out for tonight. The garden-themed restaurant was supposed to be the perfect setting—a quiet, intimate place where vines curled around twinkling fairy lights, and the soft scent of fresh blooms would fill the air. And you had dressed accordingly with something elegant, something that made you feel beautiful for him. The deep navy-blue dress you wore clung to your form just right, the intricate lace details at the sleeves soft against your skin. You had taken your time getting ready, styling your hair to perfection, slipping on a pair of delicate earrings he once admired absentmindedly. A spritz of white jasmine perfume, the one he once said reminded him of spring mornings. You wanted to look like someone worthy of being by his side. You wanted to be beautiful for him, for the man who had somehow, impossibly, fallen for you.

Because, truth be told, there were times you weren’t sure you were.

you still didn’t understand how this happened—how Zayne, the prodigy, the man who could save lives with his hands and mind, had chosen you. He was brilliant, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. And you? You were just… you. Ordinary in comparison. He never made you feel small, never belittled you, but standing beside him you felt you were just lucky to be there. His world was one of brilliance, filled with extraordinary people—Lina, the fearless Deepspace Hunter; his late friend Caleb, a DAA pilot whose loss still lingered in hushed conversations; his esteemed mentors and fellow doctors who spoke in a language you could only ever grasp at the edges. Compared to them, compared to him, you felt so small.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, was supposed to be about the two of you.

You had fallen for him in the quietest of ways—through the gentle cadence of his voice, through the moments he noticed things others didn’t. How he’d pull a chair out for you before you could do it yourself, how he’d check the temperature of your tea so you wouldn’t burn your tongue, how he’d listen, really listen, to your ramblings even after a 48-hour shift. He had nestled himself into your heart without you even realizing it.

And tonight, he had insisted he wanted to be with you, even with the chaos of the hospital weighing on his shoulders.

The call came two hours before your reservation. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you saw his name flash on your screen.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Zayne’s voice was warm, familiar, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it tonight.”

Your heart sank, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to remain even. “It’s okay, Zayne. I know you’re busy.”

“It's been a long shift, and the surgeries…”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cancel the reservation. Take some breaks and rest, okay? You sound tired…”

“I am fine, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear.”

"It’s fine, Zayne." you whispered, even if it wasn’t. “We’ll just celebrate it another day. No big deal.” Even though it felt like one at the moment.

Still, you weren’t upset. Not really. You understood. You always understood.

You hung up and exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your lap. It wasn’t his fault. He was working back-to-back shifts, saving lives, doing what he was meant to do. And yet, you couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from settling in your chest.

You exhaled slowly, stripping away the dress you had so eagerly put on just hours ago. You slip into into one of Zayne’s oversized sweaters instead, the one that still smelled like him, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You wear leggings underneath and slip on your shoes. You took your time packing the gifts back into the car, moving slowly, as if dragging out the moment would make it hurt less. Maybe when he was finally done, you could pick him up from the hospital. At least you’d get to see him and surprise him. This was what occupied your time for the next three to four hours.

Once everything was back in the car, you plopped yourself on his plush but ergonomic couch. You scrolled through your phone while waiting, mindlessly tapping through social media, until one post stopped you cold.

Lina’s story.

A picture of her sitting across from Zayne in a small restaurant outside Akso hospital, the caption lighthearted:

When you have to drag out your doctor because he won’t follow his own advice about resting. (-_-)

Zayne looked amused in the photo, tired but still composed, his lips slightly curved in a small, rare smile. He looked… content. His gaze focused on her as if she had just said something ridiculous.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen.

It was stupid. It was so stupid to feel like this. Lina was his childhood best friend. She had never given you a reason to be insecure, and yet, the sting of it hit you like a slow, creeping ache. He had time to go out for a meal with her. He had time to smile like that, even after canceling on you. You knew you were being irrational, that he had only stepped out for a quick bite in his busy shift, yet you felt betrayed.

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, but they kept falling, silent at first, then turning into quiet, shuddering sobs. You felt pathetic. Childish. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You knew he wasn’t. But it hurt anyway. Because you would have taken anything—just a few moments, even just a simple meal at that tiny restaurant, if it meant spending time with him today.

It hurt in a way that made your chest feel tight, made the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. The sting of it crept under your skin like a wound you hadn’t realized was open, raw and aching. The disappointment bled into something uglier, something heavier. Why, after everything, did it feel like you were always on the sidelines of his life? No, Zayne never made you feel that way. It was your own spiraling thoughts.

A loud sob choked its way out, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that would somehow ground you. You wanted to hate yourself for crying over something so petty. He was saving lives. He was exhausted. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it hurt.

You needed to go home. You needed to collect yourself before the ugly thoughts swallowed you whole. You stood up, tears streaming down your face, as the weight of it all seemed too much to bear. You didn’t want to sit here anymore. You didn’t want to wait. You needed to go home, to clear your head, to get away from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

You sniffled, grabbing your keys and heading out. The highway would be the fastest route home—less traffic, a straight shot. You rerouted, pressing your foot on the accelerator, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You wiped at your tears quickly, trying to focus on the road.

The road stretched out before you, a wide expanse of concrete and asphalt that felt like it would swallow you whole. The tears wouldn’t stop, and you wiped them away, trying to steady your hands on the wheel, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you understood, that you were rational about his work. The reality of it, the empty seat next to you, the disappointment of seeing Zayne happy in a photo with someone else, it all felt too much.

And then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast.

A car jumped the signal, trying to merge into the highway.

You slammed the breaks, the scream of tires against pavement rang in your ears.

The impact was instant. A violent, sickening jolt that sent your body forward, the seatbelt snapping against your chest, the airbag exploding in front of you. The windshield cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Your vision blurred, the world spinning.

Pain.

Your chest burned, lungs straining to catch a breath. Your limbs felt heavy. You reached for the seatbelt, your fingers fumbling, but it was jammed.

Fuck.

Your head lulled forward, resting against the deflated airbag. Your head was heavy, your thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. The distant wail of sirens reached your ears, but they felt so far away.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening.

I hope the other person is alright.

The thought barely had time to settle before everything faded into black.

ZAYNE'S POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the chaos of the emergency room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the undercurrent of blood—familiar, almost routine, yet tonight it gnawed at Zayne's nerves in a way he couldn't quite shake. He hadn’t left since he stepped through those doors, yet somehow, the guilt weighing on him had nothing to do with the lives he saved today. It was you.

He was tired. God, was he tired. His body screamed for rest, his temples throbbed from the strain of back-to-back shifts, but the hospital was understaffed, and there was no room for exhaustion when lives were at stake. As a cardiologist, his expertise lay in the intricate mechanics of the human heart, but duty demanded flexibility—especially in the ER. Cardiologists weren’t meant to be dealing with blunt force trauma and lacerations, but tonight, none of that mattered. They needed doctors. He was a doctor. So, he worked.

Even through the fatigue, his mind kept drifting back to you. He could still hear your voice from the call earlier, soft and understanding despite the disappointment laced beneath it. You didn’t deserve this. You had every right to be upset, to be frustrated that he had broken his promise, yet you didn’t even complain. That hurt more than if you had yelled at him

God, he loved you. And he hated himself for testing that patience again and again.

His hand tightened around the pen he was holding. He had plans—plans to make it up to you. The necklace in his office drawer, nestled in a velvet box, had been meant for tonight. Something small, perhaps, compared to everything you did, but a token of his devotion nonetheless. He could still salvage this. Maybe he could call you later, ask if you were still awake—

His device beeped, pulling him back to the present.

MVA on the highway. ETA: 5 minutes.

Multi-vehicle accident. Paramedics on site, victims en route.

Zayne exhaled sharply, shifting into work mode. He stepped into the ER just as the first stretcher was wheeled in. The radio chatter from their comms filled the space.

"Female, mid-to-late twenties, restrained driver, T-bone collision from a vehicle that ran a red light. Airbag deployment, but impact trauma to the chest from seatbelt. BP slightly low, likely from pain response. Tachycardic at 112. GCS is 14. Possible wrist fracture, mild concussion. No signs of internal bleeding from the ultrasound, but needs further imaging to rule out any complications."

He nodded briskly, slipping into the detached, clinical efficiency that had been drilled into him for years. It was only as he stepped forward, pulling the curtain aside, that his breath caught in his throat.

His world stopped.

There, on the hospital bed, was you.

Lying on the hospital bed, your hair disheveled, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breath lodged in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint focus on the rise and fall of your chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was dried blood at your temple, your lower lip swollen where you must have bitten down upon impact. The sight of the IV line in your arm, the faint bruises forming along your collarbone—he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Dr. Zayne…" Yvonne’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. A warning. He was frozen. This wasn't just a patient. This was you.

He blinked, his hands suddenly trembling as he reached for his gloves. Breathe. He had to focus. Had to push past the sheer, gut-wrenching fear threatening to paralyze him.

This is her. She was waiting for me. She—

"Dr. Zayne!!" Yvonne pressed, handing him the updated chart. "She needs you."

That snapped him out of it.

The moment his hands touched you, they were steady again. His voice was even as he examined you, the motions automatic, controlled. He checked your pupils, gently palpated your ribs to assess for fractures. He was a doctor. He was your doctor right now. He had to move. Focusing, he reached for his stethoscope, pressing it against your chest to listen for abnormalities. The rhythm of your heart was steady, but your breathing was just slightly labored—likely from the seatbelt trauma.

"You’re going to be fine." he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

You were stable.

"Her left shoulder—check for AC joint separation," he murmured, voice steadier than he felt. "Get a CT to rule out any internal injuries. And…" He swallowed. “Get me images from the crash site.” He needed to see how bad the collison was. He had to.

The hours blurred. He monitored your scans, adjusted your IV, checked your vitals more times than necessary. Each time his eyes drifted to you; his chest ached. He had seen the accident reports—your car, your windshield shattered, the crumpled hood. And the contents scattered across the scene…

You had planned everything.

For him.

And he wasn’t there.

Zayne clenched his jaw. Flowers were scattered, crushed against the upholstery. The pastries you must have picked out for him were ruined; their boxes torn open from the force of the crash. And gifts. There were so many gifts. He hadn’t even known you had planned all this.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You had so much waiting for him. And where had he been? At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, eating with Lina because she forced him to take a break. He had been smiling in that photo while you were—

God.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling shakily as he sat by your bedside. He should have been with you. If he had just—

The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that you were alive.

Now, he sat beside you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, fingers curled into his palms to keep them from shaking.

"Wake up, sweetheart." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just wake up."

And for once, Zayne—brilliant, composed, always in control—felt utterly powerless.

The beep of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic, but Zayne found himself gripping the edge of his chair every time you stirred, waiting for that moment when your eyes would finally open. His body was stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to miss it.

Then, a small shift in your breathing. A twitch of your fingers.

Zayne leaned forward just as your lashes fluttered, your eyes cracking open, only to squeeze shut again at the harsh fluorescent lights. You groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. Instinctively, you tried to sit up.

"Hey—stay put," Zayne said immediately, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you down. His touch was gentle but firm, his fingers warm even against the hospital gown. "Don’t move too much yet."

Your body resisted for a moment, muscles tensing as if you wanted to argue, but the disorientation dulled your fight. Your gaze finally settled on him, hazy with the remnants of sleep and confusion.

Then you frowned.

“…You look tired,” you murmured, your voice soft, still groggy. “How long have you been here?”

Zayne’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Even now, even when you were the one lying in a hospital bed, barely recovered from an accident, your first thoughts were about him.

His throat felt tight, but he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. “You should look at yourself first, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flickered down, taking in the IV in your arm, the bruises along your wrist, the faint soreness that no doubt ached across your body. Zayne exhaled sharply and reached out, his fingertips tracing the side of your face before cupping your cheek fully. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, as if grounding himself with the warmth of you. His eyes were moist, though no tears fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, raw in a way that stripped away every layer of his usual composure.

You parted your lips, breath hitching as if you were about to reassure him—to do what you always did, to let him off the hook, to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

But he didn’t let you.

“No,” he cut in firmly, shaking his head. “Not this time. This is the one time you shouldn’t be so understanding.” His jaw clenched, something bitter twisting in his expression. “I should have been there. We should have been celebrating our relationship. End of discussion.”

Silence settled between you.

After a beat, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “Why didn’t you demand my time?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with regret. “You had every right to.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “…I didn’t want to bother you.” Your fingers twisted into the hospital blanket, grip tightening slightly. “You’re important, Zayne. You save lives. I didn’t want to pull you away from that.”

Something in him snapped.

He let out a sharp breath, then reached for your hand, gently prying your fingers from the blanket. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Shh… And you think you’re not?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again.” His gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “You are important to me.”

"You’re important to me," he repeated, voice steady but almost desperate. "Just like my work makes demands of me, you are more than entitled to make demands of me, too."

Your eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering beneath the lingering haze of exhaustion. But Zayne’s gaze didn’t waver.

"I know I should have been there," he said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before brushing a thumb over the edge of your jaw, tilting your face slightly. “When I saw you on this bed when I entered the ER… pale, unconscious… I haven’t felt fear like that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not in all my years of doing this. Not like that."

You didn’t say anything, but your hand came up slowly, resting over his.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

This—this was what he almost lost.

His jaw clenched, then loosened as he exhaled. “I don’t want to ever feel it again.”

Another pause.

Zayne inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were still here. That you were warm. That he hadn’t lost you.

“I know I say I’m sorry a lot… and it probably has lost meaning to you.” he murmured; his voice rough with emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if struggling to put his feelings into something more tangible. “I should have been there. And I will be. Every step of the way until you’re fully recovered and after....”

His eyes flickered downward, scanning you like the doctor he was, but this was different. This wasn’t just clinical analysis—this was personal. "You got lucky," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. "Blunt force trauma to the ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. Some lacerations on your arm and leg, but nothing deep enough to require surgical intervention. The worst was the head trauma, but the scans came back clear. No bleeding, no swelling. That’s the only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown right now…" His fingers ghosted over your arm, careful not to apply pressure. "Nothing life-threatening or with lasting consequences. But still… you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone." His jaw tensed. "Not when you have me."

You gave him a small, tired smile at that, and something inside him twisted.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box. He’d gone to his office to clock off for the day to be beside you when he picked it up from his drawer. The very box he wanted to give you today. The one that was supposed to be given in a far more joyful setting. This was supposed to be today. A night spent celebrating the two of you—not this. Not hospital beds and IV drips and the hollow fear that had nearly swallowed him whole.

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were here. And this… this was still yours.

His throat felt thick as he flipped it open, revealing the necklace inside—a delicate silver chain holding a white jasmine pendant, smooth and polished, its petals carved with intricate detail. And behind it, barely visible, were his initials.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he took it out.

"I was supposed to give this to you today," he admitted, voice lower now, almost guilty. "Before all of this. Before I let my own priorities get in the way of what really mattered." He glanced up at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable. "I don’t want you to ever think that you come second. Because you don’t. You never have."

Gently, he reached around your neck, his touch featherlight as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal of the pendant settled just above your collarbone, resting against your skin. His fingertips lingered there, just briefly.

Then he let out a slow breath, tilting your chin up just slightly with his knuckles. His mind still reeled with everything that had happened, with everything he should have done differently.

"I love you," he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no wry smirk to mask his emotions, no half-hearted deflection. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "Even when I do a crappy job at showing it." He didn’t need you to say it back—he just needed you to know.

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, his lips quirked, just slightly, into something softer. "And since I’m apparently on mandatory bedside duty, I hope you’re ready to be completely spoiled. I’m talking fresh coffee, extra pillows, a ridiculous number of medical advices—"

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Zayne felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. Then, slowly, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingertips over the pendant before reaching up to cup his cheek.

Zayne leaned into your touch instinctively, exhaling softly. He smiled, finally, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "We’ll be just fine. I've got you sweetheart... I'll always be here for you."

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version |

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

case dismissed ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Summary: sometimes, men don't take y/n seriously in their world. y/n doesn't like to play the mafia card often, but what use is a mafia husband if not for this?

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ ln x reader ⋆˙⟡

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ mafia au ⋆˙⟡

masterlist ☾☼

the courtroom buzzed with tension, as y/n y/l/n, highly skilled and known for her quick retorts, faced the jury. she was in an all-out war with a condescending christian who seemed to enjoy hurling his sexist remarks about her during the proceedings.

“i'm sure the jury is smart enough to decipher emotional manipulation by ms. y/l/n,” christian spat, itching with his overly expensive tie. “come on, don’t they teach women in college about emotional manipulation these days? because, that's exactly what's happening here!”

a shift of anxious whispers traveled across the court, but y/n simply raised an eyebrow and continued her points. she had grown to expect patronizing men like christian, and all dismissive of her just for being a woman. she had suffered much worse in this world, yet somehow, she always came out victorious.

as the suit dragged on, christian's quotes got more and more frequent, and too intrusive. he gave her directions about how to dress, what to say, and even what to do. while y/n was calm, she was also trying to put the flames of rage out. she certainly was not going to let this man’s crude sexism prevail.

the case revolved around a complex corporate fraud scheme, where christian's client, a powerful conglomerate, was accused of swindling millions from unsuspecting investors. y/n, representing the plaintiffs, had meticulously built her case, exposing a trail of deceit and manipulation that led directly to christian's client.

christian, however, resorted to personal attacks, hoping to distract the jury from the overwhelming evidence against his client. he questioned y/n's competence, suggesting that her success was due to her "feminine charm" rather than her legal acumen.

"i'm surprised ms. y/l/n even understands the intricacies of this financial matter," christian scoffed, "perhaps she should stick to cases that are more... emotionally driven."

y/n gritted her teeth, but refused to rise to the bait. she knew that christian was trying to provoke her, to make her lose her composure. but she was determined to remain professional, to let her legal skills speak for themselves.

the trial dragged on, with christian's sexist remarks becoming more and more unbearable. y/n endured it all, focusing on her arguments, presenting her evidence with unwavering confidence. she was determined to win this case, not only for her clients but also for all the women who had been underestimated and belittled by men like christian.

finally, the moment came when christian made a particularly nasty comment about her "emotional instability," suggesting that her arguments were based on feelings rather than facts. y/n had had enough. she reached into her purse, pulled out her ID, and walked over to christian, her eyes blazing.

"can you read out my name, please?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.

christian smirked, thinking he had won. "sure, whatever," he said, taking the id from her hand. he glanced at it, and his eyes widened in shock. His face paled, and he started to stammer.

"y/n y/l/n- y/l/n norris?" he stuttered, his voice barely a whisper. "but... but that's..."

"yes," y/n interrupted, her voice now ringing with authority. "it's also the last name of lando norris, the most influential, not to mention dangerous, man in the city. my husband."

the buzz between the people in the courtroom, was subtle yet frightening. christian looked like a corpse and was one more second away from truly fainting. what he did not know was that wife of the mob boss he was insulting repeatedly was in fact married.

“apologies, mrs. norris,” christian softly murmured, trembling. “i really did not know.”

“y/l/n-norris. and, that’s correct. you did not,” y/n cut off. “you were so preoccupied in being a sexist pig that you could not notice anything else.”

turning to the judge, she continued in the same cool and controlled tone, “your honour, this case is as clear cut as they come, there is no additional information that i would like to provide.”

in silence the judge seemed to admire her calmness and how she handled that unexpected turn of events. “very well,” he said, looking at her. “the case is dismissed.”

y/n y/l/n-norris could not help herself smiling after the case had ended, she was not only able to win the case, but educate christian on respecting women. however, she had not quite finished yet. she still had her husband waiting for her with a gleeful glimmer in his gaze.

that evening, christian was bound to a chair in a dark, soundproofed room. he was frightened, realizing that he was in the hands of lando norris, a man not particularly famous for his mercy.

the door slowly opened, and lando entered, accompanied by y/n. christian's eyes went wide with fear as he beheld the mob boss come towards him, a sadistic grin spreading across his face.

"look who's back," lando said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "about time. death has been waiting for you."

y/n snorted, "babe, that was a terrible line,"

lando groaned, "i knew i shouldn't have used this one! george said it would sound cool!"

"clearly, george was wrong!"

christian began to plead for his life, but lando, turning his attention back on the man who was tied up, just laughed and shook his head. "you should have thought of that before you chose to disrespect my wife," he said. "now, you're going to pay the price."

y/n observed her husband handle christian, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. she knew that lando would handle things and that she didn't need to worry about christian ever causing her trouble again.

as she left the room, she couldn't help but feel a burst of pride in her husband. he was a dangerous man, but he was also intensely protective and loyal to her. she knew that she was in safe hands with him, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

did i hate this? absolutely. did i still write it? clearly. will i regret it? no, i've already forgotten about it. dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

[livingasaghost]

i think one reason why so many people fail to understand andrew and neil's relationship is because people don't know what it is to be aspec. and obviously the aspec umbrella is wide and varied and no one size fits all, but at the heart of their relationship, neil is demisexual. and i fully believe andrew is some form of aromantic. and obviously their shared history of trauma (of all kinds) colors their relationship and their sexualities and actions. but aspec people (and the people in relationships with those aspec people) develop such different relationships than allo people. they care differently, and it's often the care that becomes most important, rather than (just) the attraction. like yes, i choose you because i see you because i am interested in you because i don't quite understand you but i want to, i need to, and i am committed to sticking around regardless of whether we are a legal partnership or not.

people argue all the time that andreil would grow to say i love you some day, that they'd eventually heal enough to get married, but that isn't healing. that's ignoring a vital part of each of them. not only are they both still learning what love is, but love is not what their relationship is built around. they did not ~FaLl In LoVE~ they built a partnership around taking care of the other person. sure they were attracted to each other in their own ways, but andrew doesn't look at neil like he's his happily ever after romance. neil is the person who wants andrew to live, who wants andrew to be happy, who wants andrew to know that he has value even when he's not a good person. and andrew is the person who wants neil to be safe, who wants neil to be happy, who wants neil to know that he has value even when he isn't playing exy. their "romance" comes from holding each other up, from calling each other on their shit, from being a safe space when the world has proven it is anything but. neil is the one who almost starts to imagine some kind of long-term partnership in such conventional terms and andrew is so unconcerned with what that partnership looks like...he just knows the two of them will continue holding each other up as long as they can. and sure they'll have sex and sleep in the same bed and get cats together and all that "romantic" shit, but it's more than romance. it's a life. it's security. it's a chance to rewrite the trauma of their pasts.

and yeah to an outsider all that is romantic, sure. but i don't think andrew and neil see it like that. their relationships is all facts and truths. they feel safest in these absolutes, in the trust they are building together, in the shared language they are crafting between tentative touches and long stares. but to label it something as banal as ~romance~ undersells just what's happening to them. they don't need to say i love you because they know that all of these pieces that make up their shared life together say that for them, and they wouldn't know what to do with those words anyway. their "love" is not the same as other people's anyway. they don't need to get married because anniversaries and dates and marriages minimize just how long forever is, and they are already joined together by the understanding they share.

if the two of them got married or started "dating" it would send the wrong message to people who will never understand. neil isn't andrew's ~boyfriend~ he's the man who convinced him that life can interesting enough to stick around for. andrew isn't neil's ~lover~ he's the man who refused to let him run away from the life he always wanted. it's not romantic, it's survival. it's selflessness. it's learning how to care for yourself by caring for someone else and letting them care for you.

[abedmajeed]

What Strength Really Means 💪

Hey everyone, my name is Abdelmajed, and this is my story.

I grew up in Gaza, a place that was once full of life. I had dreams, hopes, and a deep love for my home. But in a matter of months, everything changed. I lost my home. I lost my sense of security. I lost people I loved more than anything in the world. 💔

People often talk about strength like it’s something you can see—something loud, something powerful. But I’ve learned that true strength is often quiet.

Strength is waking up every morning when you don’t know what the day will bring. Strength is carrying the memories of those you’ve lost, while still choosing to move forward. Strength is believing in a better tomorrow, even when today feels impossible.

I don’t share my story for sympathy. I share it because I know that there is still kindness in this world. I still believe in people, in love, in hope. And I know that no matter what happens, I will keep going. Because that’s what strength really is.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Just knowing that someone out there is listening means the world to me. 💙

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

[elodieunderglass]

History of Black jockeys in the USA: tumblr starter pack

The gif above was created by animating the motion study of “Annie G,” plate 627 of Eadweard Muybridge’s 1887 work, “Animal Locomotion”. The horse is a mare named “Annie G.” The jockey, unknown, is a Black man. It is one of the earliest motion studies on record, and captures some of the first humans and first animals to be recorded this way. (The earlier 1878 Muybridge study of the mare Sallie Gardener is more famous but you can’t really see the jockey.)

The Black jockey is referenced (fictionally) as an ancestor n Jordan Peele’s film Nope (2022) which also looks at the relationship between Black men, horses, and the consumption for entertainment of both of their bodies.

Fold into that what we are learning about today’s acceptance of the jockey-as-consumable, of their body as an accessory, of their wellbeing as mostly irrelevant; but then remember that once upon a time, people cared a lot more about horse racing. This is a big, tricky topic in American horse racing. There was a time in American history when Black jockeys were enslaved and forced into a job that we know is dangerous and consuming. Later there was a time in American history when Black jockeys were incredibly influential and important, competing equally alongside white jockeys, and they were deliberately pushed out of a sport they had mastered.

“The Undefeated Asteroid,” Edward Troye, 1864. Enslaved horse trainer Ansel Williamson, right, holding saddle. Ed Brown, jockey on left adjusting his spurs, was the young enslaved jockey. The groom is unidentified.

Press Keep Reading for an essay/signposts to resources. It’s intended as a jumping-off point for curious people and historians to learn more. TW for racial discrimination and discussion of weight.

As we know by now, jockeys are considered consumable/disposable by their sport; they are athletes whose names are less memorable than their mounts and their working conditions are tough. The sacrifices that jockeys make today to remain strong and light are hard enough when the jockey is willing. They have hard weight limits on their profession. And one of the very dark horrors of this was that young enslaved Black men of small stature and riding ability were singled out and used as jockeys. Their sacrifices would not have been willing. While this essay is about the Black athletes who willingly entered the sport post-abolition, I think it’s important to be up-front about the history of enslaved jockeys in America. Jockeys like Ed Brown (above) were forced into the job very, very young.

Horse racing is a bonkers calling, but it’s also one that people willingly follow. Post-abolition, there were many Black American jockeys who were incredible athletes, their records and statistics still impressive today. In a surge of excellence around the 1890s, Black jockeys rose to remarkable influence and power in America, becoming household names above even the horses, travelling the world, greeted with admiration, true celebrities with their faces on merchandise. At the very first Kentucky Derby, raced in 1875, 13 of the 15 jockeys were Black men.

Between 1890 and 1899, African American jockeys won the Kentucky Derby six times. By the early 1900s, they were history. The key push to exclude Black jockeys came when White jockeys began violently attacking their African American counterparts by boxing them out during races, running them into the rail, and hitting them with riding crops. These attacks prevented Black jockeys from finishing in the money, and endangered fragile and valuable racehorses. Soon after the attacks began, African American jockeys found they could not get rides. Anxiety over job insecurity appears to have played an important role in White jockeys’ actions: there were only a limited number of riding slots. White jockeys would have benefitted in any circumstances from the exclusion of Black jockeys, but in the late 1890s the US was in a depression, and unease about finding rides was especially high. Combined with a growing anti-gambling crusade that reduced attendance at racetracks and eliminated some tracks entirely, jockeys found demand for their services contracting.(National Bureau of Economic Research)

Professor Pellom McDaniels, describing the impact of this on legendary Black American jockey Isaac Burns Murphy:

MCDANIELS: If black people are supposed to be inherently inferior, to have someone who demonstrates success in material terms unravels this idea and therefore those whites during this time period who believe themselves to be inherently superior, something's broken in their psyches. And Murphy represents that kind of attack on white supremacy.

Isaac Burns Murphy, one of the best American jockeys of history, had an unprecedented rate of wins (something like 44% which is almost impossible.) he was born into slavery, but his mother managed to escape with him as a toddler to a Union Army camp. He was inducted into the Jockey’s Hall of Fame in 1955 and Eddie Arcaro was quoted, “there is no chance that his record of winning will ever be surpassed.” (How could it?!)

Today, the American Racing Museum honours many Black jockeys of history in their Hall of Fame, telling some truly incredible stories that are worth browsing.

Like James Winkfield. Born in America 1882, died France 1974. won the Kentucky Derby twice. Left America due to this rising backlash against the growing prominence of Black jockeys, the KKK in particular explicitly objecting to his celebrity and earnings by sending him death threats. Winkfield therefore rode and trained in Europe, settled in Russia, FLED THE 1919 REVOLUTION WITH 200 HORSES?, married an exiled Russian aristocrat (????) and, lest he know peace for five minutes, defended his horses from the European Nazi invasion with a pitchfork(!!!!). Fleeing WW2 to America, where the new racial segregation was now being widely embraced, Winkfield found hotels that had once welcomed the celebrity athlete suddenly turning him away (never forget that segregation was artificial and deliberate.) I am still stuck on him sneaking 200 thoroughbreds out of Russia. Here’s his Britannica article and Hall of Fame bio.

The campaign of racism and terror was successful at driving Black athletes from the profession, and Winkfield was the last Black jockey to win the Kentucky Derby. Jim Crow swept through the USA, and white people in the South comforted themselves with “lawn jockeys,” racist caricature lawn ornaments of Black men in jockey silks.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that Black jockeys began winning high-stakes races in the USA again.

Hopefully this has spurred (ha!) your interest. Here are some links if you find yourself interested in more!

American racing museum: Jockey hall of fame

Kentucky Derby Museum’s Black Heritage in Racing collection

How and Why Black Riders Were Driven from American Racetracks (summary paper, National Bureau of Economic Research)

There is no competition: the legacy of black jockeys (1975 entry in Sepia magazine preserved here. Note that James Winkfield’s picture incorrectly identified as Isaac B Murphy.)

This 1975 photo is from the article above and describes Cheryl Smith, “first Black American female jockey to hold a license.” I haven’t been able to find out much about her, but I’m not a historian - let me know if she takes your interest as a topic!

It looks like there are some big interesting books on the subject, though I haven’t read them myself. If you’re interested in doing a research project, here they are!

The Great Black Jockeys: The Lives and Times of the Men who Dominated America's First National Sport, by Ed Hotaling, 1999

Isaac Murphy: The Rise and Fall of a Black Jockey, by Katharine C Mooney, 2003

The First Kentucky Derby: Thirteen Black Jockeys, One Shady Owner, and the Little Red Horse That Wasn't Supposed to Win, by Mark Schrager, 2023.

[abedmajeed]

What Strength Really Means 💪

Hey everyone, my name is Abdelmajed, and this is my story.

I grew up in Gaza, a place that was once full of life. I had dreams, hopes, and a deep love for my home. But in a matter of months, everything changed. I lost my home. I lost my sense of security. I lost people I loved more than anything in the world. 💔

People often talk about strength like it’s something you can see—something loud, something powerful. But I’ve learned that true strength is often quiet.

Strength is waking up every morning when you don’t know what the day will bring. Strength is carrying the memories of those you’ve lost, while still choosing to move forward. Strength is believing in a better tomorrow, even when today feels impossible.

I don’t share my story for sympathy. I share it because I know that there is still kindness in this world. I still believe in people, in love, in hope. And I know that no matter what happens, I will keep going. Because that’s what strength really is.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Just knowing that someone out there is listening means the world to me. 💙

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

[ralabbit]

I hate when people say ai makes art more accessible. These people have never made art and they don't even know it. Ai didn't give them the ability to make art. It actually makes it less accessible by discouraging beginner artists from putting in the effort. I think there is a fear of making bad art now and the internet in general is very hostile to beginners. Like if you can't draw good, you will never be able to draw good and people online will hate you. So you need to use ai for "accessibility". Because it isn't "fair" that artists who have honed their craft for years and years are better than you. And it's apparently ableist to think otherwise (despite the fact that historically disabled people have always been making art) But if you genuinely are entirely unable to create art (which is incredibly unlikely, to be completely honest with you especially if you're able to type out pro ai messages). If you genuinely are incapable of making art (and I don't mean "good" art, because no one starts out good. This is not an inate ability that can be lacked. It is not a deficiency that a select few are born with) Then ai will not open the doors to your ability to create. Because you'll have no part in the creating. And if you genuinely have something that prevents you entirely from making art, then I truly feel for you. I do. Because you'll never ve able to make art. AI will never be able to give you the ability to make art. I know this sounds harsh.

Ai isn't a tool to make the art process easier, it is more like delegating the process to someone else. It's like if you hired an artist and comissioned them to draw something. And then, upon receiving the artwork, you called yourself an artist. It's illogical. It's delusional. It entirely goes against common sense. But at least in that situation, you are contributing financially. You aren't the artist, but in a way, you've played a role in the art, by enabling the artist to be able to support themselves while making the art. With AI, you've lost that too. You're less of an artist than someone who is purchasing a commission from an artist, not only are you not the artist, you're also actively hurting artists.

A five year old child scribbling on the wall is more of an artist than you. The smudged remnants of their creativity after their parents attempted and failed to fully clean it off; it's ugly, but it's more art than your generated images. And then, in a little over a decade, the child has grown up and is moving out to college, and it's awkward and sad in the final hours before getting in the car and then the mom sees the wall, still smudged after so many years, and she laughs, and she tells the child the story again. And the child rolls their eyes because they've heard it so many times, but secretly, they're happy to hear it. They can be a child for a little while longer.

Their little sister is in middle school. She's drawing something angry in her English notebook. She is more of an artist than you too. Her parents are fighting and she misses her brother. She doesn't care about school. She wears headphones in class and doesn't listen to the teachers. When they yell at her, she yells back. And then, one day, her English teacher notices her drawings. And she remembers how she felt as a little girl when her parents were fighting, before the divorce. How she felt all alone in the world. She tells the girl, "I'm here for you, okay?"

The older sibling is studying to be a doctor. It's stressful, and they're overwhelmed. They put on the playlist their younger sister made for them. It feels like home. It calms them down. The music is what gets them through med school. They become an anesthesiologist. Their sister's playlist plays in the operating room, calming down worried patients.

One day, the siblings' mom is home, recovering from a surgery of her own. She's disabled and spends long periods of time in bed, recovering. She knits sweaters, finding the repetitive nature of the task comforting. It's summer now, and the sweaters won't be used for a while. The younger sister's sweater from last winter sits on her bed in her art school dorm. It's her favorite colors. It emanates love. The older sibling has it hung in their closet. Seeing it, they remember to call their mom to check on her. To make sure she's getting enough fluids and not overexerting herself, the doctor in them showing as brightly as the patterns on the sweater.

When the dad gets sick, really really sick, the kind that you don't recover from, he moves back into the family house. The mom hands him a sweater and the daughter hands him a hand drawn card. The eldest child sees these thoughtful gifts decides to sing him a song on the spot. They're an awful singer. But everyone is smiling and soon they're all singing along. The wall is still smudged behind them.

Your image sits on the internet, empty and lifeless.

Unpopular opinion but if you don't enjoy the process you should find a different thing to do.

And I think this is true in general but now I'm talking about it in the context of AI.

If you don't enjoy making art and only care about the end piece and how it'll look and how much traction it"lol get online then making art is not something for you, find something you enjoy from start to finish.

Same goes for writing: if you do not enjoy writing and rewriting and then some more and instead want AI to write for you, being a writer is not something you should pursue.

Sure, not every part of creative process is going to be equally enjoyable but you should get satisfaction from solving the problems along the way and you should get a sense of accomplishment on your way of "making the piece yours" and you should have a sense of ownership once you are done.

None of these things will come from typing in a prompt into chatGPT. And I am sad to see so many people are missing on the opportunity to experience the joy of making something with their own hands and brains.

[lvstharmony]

you can say or do whatever you want, i will never let this dunya and the people within it harden my heart.

[abedmajeed]

What Strength Really Means 💪

Hey everyone, my name is Abdelmajed, and this is my story.

I grew up in Gaza, a place that was once full of life. I had dreams, hopes, and a deep love for my home. But in a matter of months, everything changed. I lost my home. I lost my sense of security. I lost people I loved more than anything in the world. 💔

People often talk about strength like it’s something you can see—something loud, something powerful. But I’ve learned that true strength is often quiet.

Strength is waking up every morning when you don’t know what the day will bring. Strength is carrying the memories of those you’ve lost, while still choosing to move forward. Strength is believing in a better tomorrow, even when today feels impossible.

I don’t share my story for sympathy. I share it because I know that there is still kindness in this world. I still believe in people, in love, in hope. And I know that no matter what happens, I will keep going. Because that’s what strength really is.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Just knowing that someone out there is listening means the world to me. 💙

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

[batcavescolony]

Katniss is such an unreliable narrator. She says "Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me" girl you deliver strawberries to the Mayor, you hunt and trade for the district, when you fell at Prim being chosen someone caught you, when you went to Prim people parted for you, when you volunteered EVERYONE stopped. Idk how to tell you but I think you're a pillar of the community.

[captainbee66]

I miss the era of the internet where everyone had an evil alter ego/character that would show up on their channel, just to be silly, that eventually got a lot of lore from the fandom for no reason. It was a simpler time.