plethora-of-words

[plethora-of-words]

Camera Roll

My favorite photos are all with you. I try and blame it on the other aspects that factor into taking the perfect picture. 'The light hit the lens at the ideal angle' or 'the camera was held in a flattering position' or 'the phone had better quality than the rest.' The excuses are endless and desperate- a bone thrown to an impatient dog, or a fishing rod thrust fruitlessly into deep water. They are merely a last ditch attempt to continuously deny the painful, stark, obvious truth- it was with you that I felt the most like myself. There is a noticeable pattern to the photos- my arms are almost always wrapped around your waist, as if I'm fighting to hold onto you for as long as possible. There was something about the way my head perfectly slotted into the crook of your neck, the way your hands would settle comfortably on top of mine, and the way holding you sent a trail of warmth throughout my entire body until I felt like I was on fire. The way that the first time I felt that feeling, I felt like I had hit the jackpot in life, like I was luckier than any man who had ever won the lottery- for how could those cold green slips of paper triumph over the absolute blinding joy of your hand carressing mine? My smile is always the size of a half moon on a clear night. It's not the kind of smile that is rehearsed in the mirror before picture day, or falsely plastered on for the perfect instagram story. It's the kind of smile born from you playfully hitting my arm before the shutter clicks, or from you whispering a book reference in my ear right before I stare at the camera. It's the kind of smile that is built over months of your affectionate glances and thoughtful gifts and typo-ridden love letters, all just so I would wear that smile for a few extra minutes. My eyes are always bright with sheer delight. Despite the constant sleep deprivation school brings and the eye bags underneath my eyelids, there's an unmistakable joy. It's that of a child when they're presented with an ice cream cone, or their favorite toy; a small gesture enough to light up their entire world, even if only for a day. You knew the way to hold the phone so that it always captured my best side, and I was always blinded by the shock of the fact that there was someone in my life who had that ability. Someone in my life who had the ability to identify my insecurities and twist them into something I hardly noticed, all with the way you skillfully positioned the camera.   As my finger continues to flit through the camera roll, it becomes more and more glaringly evident that you seeped an unknown magic into all of my pictures, solely by standing behind the lens. I think it will forever be an enormous tradgedy that we weren't everlasting. Alas, you had the midas touch in my life, while somebody else had it in yours.

#i haven't been able to write for months #but this is an old piece i found in my drafts from december of last year #figured it was better to post something over nothing #writing #prose #spilled ink #spilled prose #writers on tumblr #my prose #relationship #wlw #first love #heartbreak #breakup #romance #nostaliga #love #spilled thoughts

[plethora-of-words]

Between two strangers on the internet- are you okay?

trying to be- things aren't exactly the way I hoped they'd be by this stage in my life, but I'm working on accepting things as they are. thank you for asking <3

[plethora-of-words]

Outgrown

It's only one more year until I can sweep this country under the rug like the shards of a broken wine glass; something that was once sparkling and translucent and pristine, but is now nothing more than inconvenient pieces to clean. It's not that it hasn't had its fair share of good times. It's been vivacious and loud like a houseparty and it's been soft and mellow like a candle-lit dinner. But it's never been home. It's never been a greeting all of my neighbours or knowing shortcuts around the area or walking the streets without needing directions type of home. It's always been being hyperaware of my foreign accent or slipping off mini-skirts and crop tops in restaurant bathrooms, just to avoid the stares. The judging. It's always been teetering on a fine line between never fully indian but not american enough. I’ve never been able to just be. But there were moments where I felt fully at home, with people who made me feel like I belonged, completely. Rare, but they existed. Moments where I felt like there was no other place in the world I'd rather be- dim lights and bad rom coms and pepsi that made me sick to my stomach the next morning- but they were worth it. Nights full of trashing movies and braiding hair and face masks and bubbly, innocent laughter. People that lit up my eyes with jokes and filled my soul with pure comfort. But unfortunately, now they're all tainted. After all, how is it possible to watch videos from the past fondly when the tv they're played on has a cracked screen? As the years passed by, the layers chipped off of everyone like a coat of cheap nailpaint. The shiny gloss wore off and there they stood, in all of their flawed, imperfect glory. Those who were once my 'ride-or-die' became phone calls when time would allow it, or hasty text messages typed out between classes. But still, I loved them. There were still those sleepovers and late night video calls and shopping sprees- what did it matter that they turned to the bottle more than to me? There were still those rambunctious inside jokes and birthday parties- what did it matter that they spent more time on potential hookups than their friends? There was still the past- what did it matter that the present reality was bleary and disheartening? Their essence, our essence, was all still intact, right? Alas, the past isn't enough to keep something alive forever. A matchbox from years ago won't suffice to start a fire now; there just aren't enough matches inside of it any longer. As the days go by, it feels more like a countdown than truly living. I live yearning for the day when these people, these caricatures, are nothing more than a contact on my phone. A day when I can turn off that tv with the memories on loop, throw the entire thing out, and buy a brand new one to place in my new bedroom. A day where I don't need to romanticize my every action just to have the energy to go on. A day where existing will finally feel easy again. This country has been a warm jacket for five long years, but it's done its share of keeping me warm. The hands have gotten too short and the fleece is stained with dirt and the zipper gets stuck every now and then- it's simply time for a change.

#something feels off about this one but i can't figure it out #either way #i do love this country #but i'm tired of the people i'm always surrounded by #it's just been too long and they've all changed too much #and memories aren't enough to salvage relationships forever #writing #writers on tumblr #prose #spilled prose #prose writing #my prose #growing up #change #teenagers #high school #abcd #indian american #friends #friendship #moving on #spilled thoughts #spilled ink

[plethora-of-words]

The rise of ‘insta poetry’

The creative arts is a field that unfortunately, has never quite received the recognition it deserves. Few artists- like writers and painters- have ever been able to make a living out of their art, regardless of their skill level. Even legendary poets such as William Carlos Williams and Charles Bukowski had to take second jobs alongside writing their poetry to survive. 

However, with the rise of ‘instagram poetry/insta-poetry,’ it’s become a main career for many people. Instapoetry, by definition, is a term used to describe poetry written with the intention of being posted on social media platforms, especially instagram. It has a distinct style when compared to the work of poets from the past, or even the poetry taught in schools. 

One of the most notable poets who emerged using this style would be Rupi Kaur, author of ‘Milk & Honey.’ She began by posting her poems on tumblr back in 2012, switched to instagram, and eventually published her collection of poems as a book in 2014. By 2016, the book had made it onto the New York Times bestseller list, and her success continued to grow. The rise of Rupi Kaur helped the entire genre of poetry gain recognition once again; from an under-valued, under-appreciated art form to one that was in the front shelves of bookstores. 

Since Rupi Kaur, more and more insta-poets have begun to enter the spotlight, including many celebrities who decided to branch out into poetry. Cleo Wade, Atticus, and R.M. Drake are just a few who have been successful. This style of poetry’s success is likely due to how accessible and understandable it is to most consumers. The poems are typically quite short, aesthetically-pleasing to look at with drawings to accompany them, and are usually blunt and not heavy on literary devices or techniques. It also has a proven history of encouraging more people to engage in writing poetry, helping it stay relevant and brought into the changing world. Further, it provides more room for experimentation and freedom than typical poetry, which makes it more appealing to the majority of the population.

However, there’s another side of people who hold a different viewpoint. It’s often argued that insta-poetry is an invalid style of poetry, and is rather leading to the death of true, authentic, and meaningful poetry. Some claim that it’s nothing but shallow, artificial, ‘shower-thought’ lines that don't require any analysis or interpretation, with the only method of conveying meaning being line breaks.They say it focuses more on looking aesthetic and pretty instead of holding any substance, which leads to the demise of good quality literature in the modern world. Rebecca Watts, a British poet, wrote an essay in which she criticized the craft of insta-poetry and some of the poets themselves, writing it off as ‘amateurish’ and something that solely propagates the culture of instant gratification.

According to them, the issue does not lie with enjoying insta poetry- the issue is what its success shows us about society. It shows us society’s addiction to simplicity, and their interest in things that do not require them to think or have background knowledge about a certain topic. It’s also a testament to the steadily decreasing attention spans of people- nobody has the patience or energy to read the work of someone like Robert Frost and analyze the meaning behind his writing. The work of poets such as Rupi Kaur is much more immediately relatable and understandable, due to its simplicity, and that’s what sells. 

Further, most of these poets had no formal education regarding writing poetry. Those against it argue that people publishing works of poetry without having the proper knowledge are stripping the art form of its complexities, and making it seem like an easier task than it is. Writing is a learned, complicated craft, and many insta-poets are self-publishing collections of poetry as a side-job to their already famous profession. Simultaneously, many writers working on honing their skills and trying to publish poetry are hardly getting recognition, angering many supporters of poetry. 

In conclusion, insta-poetry may be a new arrival, but it’s evidently one that’s staying. It’s a double-edged sword, and it’s up to us to choose which side to focus on. 

#writing #nonfiction #article #essay #poetry #instapoet #literature #modern literature #modern poetry #social media #writers on tumblr

[plethora-of-words]

Intertwined

Circumstance makes it so hard to forget you. I try. Religiously, constantly, persistently, I try. Occasionally, I even succeed. But with our lives as intertwined as they are, there's only a certain extent to how much I can erase your existence from every surface. They're stained with permanent marker, and no matter how many alcohol wipes I use, it's futile to try and rub all of it out. My room has your fingerprints all over it. You're in the scented candle I light while doing homework, the face wash in my bathroom, and the pencil pouch I have on my desk. Your netflix password sits in my TV, and your clothes forgotten from countless sleepovers hog up my closet space. I can't quite seem to let go- how excruciatingly empty would things feel if I no longer had artifacts that remind me of you? How excruciatingly empty would my daily life be if I didn't have objects containing memories of your laugh, your smile, and your love for me scattered around my space? Maybe it would be more healthy, maybe it would be more productive- but would it be more happy? You've touched the lives of all of my friends. It's wrong to say my when I really mean our- for as long as I can remember, we've gone everywhere together. We've spoken to the same people and attended the same events, leaving our presence as a unit imprinted in all of their minds. How much do I even have to offer when you're not by my side? When you're not with me cracking jokes and causing everyone to collapse in laughter- how could I possibly suffice on my own? There's only so long my unsure words and quiet nature can entertain others. They have an expiration date, and as the days flip by on the calendar and the year comes to a close, I can only feel it growing closer, like a tornado that can be predicted but not stopped. I can feel the tsunami of loneliness about to crush me and everyone's sour distaste for my presence grow steadily in my bones, but all I can do is sit behind a one-way mirror, watching it unfold but unable to take action. I suppose there's a reason the phrase 'you can run, but you cannot hide' became so widespread. Everyday, I tire my legs by running away from your presence. I've trained my thoughts to stray to any topic besides the color of your eyes, I've trained my body to carry itself to any group away from your vivacious laughter, and I've trained my brain to get lost in the distraction of anything nearby. But there's only so long that material items and mutual friends can distract me from the gaping hole the loss of of your love has left in my life. I cannot hide from the fact that you made up half of my soul and that you colored every single aspect of my being. These days, even breathing feels like a herculean task, for I am constantly suffocated by the remnants of you that are at every single corner. After all, for four years we shared a scarf, and when you left, you pulled its threads so taut that it tore. Now, when I wear my remaining half, its fabric sheds constantly. It's been damaged beyond repair, yet I cannot seem to make myself take it off. It’s slung around my shoulders continuously, leaving a trail of its pieces behind on every path I walk. The idealistic part of me always hopes that someday, you'll come back for the missing half; but the logical part of me knows that you took yours off months ago, and that you're walking the streets with a brand new one- one that is unharmed and unstained. All I can hope is that someday, I will be able to replace mine as well.

#another ventpost #bc im so tired #sometimes i cant wait to escape this school and this city #and go somewhere where everything's not so painfully interconnected #writing #my writing #prose #prose writing #writers on tumblr #breakup #relationship #love #memories #wlw #first love #romance #spilled thoughts #spilled ink

[plethora-of-words]

It’s okay to love things without a ‘meaningful’ reason

In today’s competitive world, it’s so easy to get swept up in the idea that in order to love something, there has to be a ‘meaningful’ reason behind it. That there’s a 'why’ behind every book you recommend, or every show you watch, or every character you fall in love with. That there’s a deeper meaning to it all, or a complicated, intriguing unknown as to why something holds such a special place inside your heart. But that’s not always the case. Sometimes the real reason can feel too simple or plain to be accepted by others. Maybe you love a character, not because of their development or their arc,  but because you’ve struggled with something similar to them, and they’re a fictional representation of something you can’t put into words. They’re an embodiment of your feelings and emotions, and you can’t help but relate to them. Maybe you love a book, not because it’s objectively well-written, but because it came to you at the perfect moment in your life, and provided some solace in a difficult situation. It was your one constant through thick and thin, and unlike people, you knew it would always be there. Maybe you love a show, not because of its educational value or inspiring themes, but because of its cheesy humor and witty jokes that help you escape the dreary reality of the world. It provides respite and manages to make your tired body muster up the energy to laugh after a long workday. Maybe you love a poem, not because you understand the deeper meaning or the array of literary devices used, but because you like the way the words are strung together. It has a special ring to it that you can’t quite put your finger on, but you commend it nonetheless. All of this is completely valid. It’s okay to love things for the sake of pure nostalgia, or because they make you feel good in an unexplainable way. You don’t have to know every fact about them or be an all-knowing expert. Your reasons aren’t too superficial or one-dimensional. You can love things just because you do, and that’s a meaningful enough reason on its own.

#self reblog

[plethora-of-words]

Fictional

Is it too much to ask for someone to be entirely enamored with me? For a love that doesn't die out- that burns with the brightness of a star and has the enormity of a galaxy. For a love that does not feel like I’m overspending- that doesn't feel like I’m splurging at a shopping mall and watching my earnings slowly trickle out of my bank account. For a love that is reciprocated- that when I add wooden logs to the fire, they join me with a lit match of their own. For someone's eyes to twinkle with unspoken understanding and for someone's mouth to curve into a smile built off of fondness. For myself to matter. But they say it doesn't exist- they're just love stories, they're just fairytales, they're just fantasies. They're merely fictional. They laugh as they explain it to me, the pity in their eyes resembling that of accidentally kicking a puppy. Human beings in the real world are far too shallow and far too vain and far too focused on their own self preservation to place their soul into the palm of another's hand and whisper, ‘hold it close and keep it safe, for it is all yours.' Their fingers will always wrap around a hammer instead of their lover's. They will tighten their grip around its steel handle until their knuckles turn white, building a wall from scratch until it surrounds them from every angle. There may be a few bruises in the process- a scrape here, a cut there- until eventually, their hand is fully bandaged. The white plasters lie stark against their skin, and suddenly every movement in their muscles is far too painful- much too painful to spend holding someone else's hand in theirs for longer than minutes. But still, I tried. I rubbed salve on the wounds, in hopes that one day she'd wrap her arms around my waist and dance with me in the night. I tried, in hopes that she'd see me for all I am, as she so fervently and so frequently claimed. I tried, in sheer, blinded hope of the most mundane of things- a quick kiss goodbye, a stolen smile, a chaste touch.  It is not too much to ask, is it? It is not too much to ask to be treated with the gentleness of a porcelain vase, with the joy of a favorite song, or with the warmth of freshly baked muffins. But these days, it feels as if I asked for her to fly to the sky with wax wings and place the sun at my feet. Sometimes, it is hard to tell what I’m truly mourning: the loss of her, or the loss of my foolish, idealistic idea of love.

#i still cannot tell if i expected too much or if i dodged a bullet #but whatever it is it's over now #and the aftermath is such a struggle #so this is sorta a vent post #writing #writers on tumblr #prose #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled truth #love #romance #relationship #expectations #breakup #first love #wlw #my writing

[plethora-of-words]

are you in love?

I am (as you can probably tell by my last couple of posts.) It is simultaneously one of the best and one of the most terrifying feelings I've experienced yet.

#ask answered

[plethora-of-words]

An angry man

My grandfather was an angry man. His anger was a volcano. It would simmer slowly as the hours ticked by, a boiling pit of magma bubbling steadily to the surface. Dangerous yet silent, present yet forgotten. Forgotten until the first slip up, that is. Sometimes, all it took was an abandoned school bag and a teary eyed child wearing a tantrum. Other times, all it took was an off-hand comment, whispered wearily by an onlooker, or a relative, or a wife. The possibilities were a pile of lottery tickets in a jar, a draw of luck every single time. One would never know if it was their turn to be chosen, but never was there a time someone was not. What came after would be routine, mundane, predictable even, followed as mindlessly as a schedule at school. A raised hand, a harsh shout, a fallen vase. The pieces would be swept under a rug and the bruises smeared with ointment and a tacky bandaid. What went unnoticed, however, was the swell of the same anger in his son's stomach.

                                                         ***

My father is an angry man.

His anger is a thunderstorm. Initially, it's nothing more than a mere few drops of rain, a sound that putters on rooftops and water that pools at one's feet. Inconvenient, but manageable. As the day builds, it begins to pour mercilessly, inviting lightning to also join the show. An amalgamation of the claps of thunder and the burn of lightning is on display for all to see, continuing relentlessly. He is his father's son. They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree- an overused cliche- but what better way is there to describe the way his actions mirror those from decades ago? It's like listening to the same song on loop, or watching the same film over and over again, the images flashing before everyone's eyes with matching feelings of deja vu coursing through their minds. It is slightly different, though. Once the sun makes its appearance and the rain subsides, he comes back with a flurry of toys, or a dripping ice cream cone, or a shiny new ipad. He attempts to right his wrongs with all the material items his money can muster up. It is improvement, is it not? But despite it all, the wounds remain open, unhealed and raw.

                                                            ***

They say if you were raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house. They say that you will find him even when he's not there.

Maybe it's an angry man brought in from the streets, one who's all blinding smiles and kind eyes- until something doesn't go his way. Maybe it's a son, with the same furl of untamed anger burning inside of his veins. Or maybe, it's you. I'm the one living in a house made up of paper walls and a delicate foundation. The generations before me have made their mark, left their photo frames hanging on my sagging walls and their antiques lined along my shelves. My house is on the verge of collapse, ready to crack in half like a piece of perfectly tempered chocolate. But try as I might, the furniture they've brought inside is bolted down, drilled into my interior and one with my being.

#writing #writers on tumblr #prose #my prose #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #my writing #generational trauma #angry #anger #cycle of abuse #parents #father #family

[plethora-of-words]

Enough

‘You’re my secret.' Most days, I’m a ring inside her jeans pocket. A razor blade under her tongue. A tattoo beneath her sleeve. Always to be hidden and never to be displayed. Others exist, though. Exist not only for her, but for the world to see. She wears them like a diamond necklace, a shining halo around her throat. She places their faces in ornate frames, high on the walls of her abode. She clutches them like a designer purse, close to her chest and feet away from any harm. Their surfaces do not have scratches. Their spark never dies out, always blazing and powerful and aflame. They are seemingly perfect, in every way noticeable and imaginable. She smiles ruefully, knowing her words cut with the sharpness of a knife. But not even once does she take them back. *** ‘I want you for myself.' Somedays, I’m her prized posession. In the dim light of her bedroom, she takes me apart on the white sheets, whispering words of praise and validation. Telling me that I’m hers, that I’m beautiful, that I’m enough. The moon rises and bathes the room in a soft white glow, and we share earphones and whisper silent confessions under the safety net of her blanket. The music vibrates through my body, our thoughts and actions in tandem for just one night. But within time, the white glow is replaced with orange. What was once soft and mellow is now fierce and loud. In broad daylight, there's nowhere to hide. Not a single crack or crevice for her shadow to silently slip into. A single push of the door and her body intertwined with mine will be a sight for all to see. She leaves before my eyes fully open, the lingering scent of her perfume the only clue that she was ever present. *** 'But you know that I love you most.' One day, I finally talk back. She shoots down my meek protests with an arrow from her quiver, as practiced and instantaneously as a true archer. My wobbly words are no match for her certainty, are no match for her experience. She tells me I’m the center of her universe. She tells me that I’m what keeps her axis rotating, that I’m the oxygen that fills her lungs, that I’m the face she sees in the stars. She wraps her mouth around multitudes of cliches, one honey-dipped sentence after another escaping her ruby red lips. The sound of saccharine promises fills my ears- a rushing, cavernous sound, sweeter than nectar. It slips my mind that I'm well versed in literature and novels filled with the same love confessions. It never occurs to me that her words are simply those of others, copy-pasted onto a new document and insincere as a knock-off product. The bar is so close to touching the soil that it feels as if she's just moved a mountain for me. It's enough.

#writing #my writing #prose #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled feelings #writers on tumblr #romance #wlw #toxic relationship #relationship #first love #love #secret lovers

[plethora-of-words]

An understanding of love

I never understood what they meant, when they said love consumed you. When they said love was a force that embraced every crevice of your being. That seeped into every trail in your mind. That filled you up from within like water gushing into a flaccid plant cell, flowing and flowing until its walls become strong enough to support its body. When they said it makes every half empty glass look full and every full moon a little brighter and every flower a little prettier. When they said it sustains. But now, as I hear your steady breathing on the other end of the call and my teeming mind slows, I think the pieces have begun to add up. We may be ten kilometers and dust-filled roads apart, but you feel so close on the other end of my smudged phone screen. I want to pick all the fluorescent flowers from fields of everlasting green and braid them through your hair, with my fingers caressing your soft strands, each touch conveying the emotions I could never quite say. I want to laugh until our smiles match the half moons during rare clear nights, with our hands interlinked and fingers forming hearts on the soft grass beneath us. I want you to wrap your arms around my waist where our bodies fit together perfectly and stand under the vast sky, which suddenly feels like it holds space for only us. I think I understand what it means, now. It's about bringing life to the mundane. Every grocery store run is a little more fun as you give silly names to all the unnamed aisles. Every laundry day has a little more spunk with your melodious voice ringing through my room as I fold and hang all the pieces of fabric. Every dinner is a little more entertaining as I poorly attempt to cook food and you mend my mistakes with a loving laugh. It's about painting memories everyplace we go, with our newly paint-stained fingertips leaving behind colorful smudges on every surface we touch. The time where you subtly inched your hand closer to mine on the barren school desk, the time where my body pressed into the plain white wall as you kissed me, the time where my feet were lifted off of the cracked concrete at the bus stop as you spun me around in a hug. Each dull area becomes a shrine of moments, a time capsule of memories, a piece of artwork bursting with the color we left in our wake. I think, in a way, every part of me was made for you. I think, in a way, every cell in me was always screaming at me to love you. And I know that I'm more grateful than ever that I finally let myself.

#i think im falling in love #for the first time #and despite the many difficulties #im always grateful for what we have now #prose #my prose #writers on tumblr #writing #spilled feelings #spilled ink #love #relationship #first love #wlw #romance #spilled emotions #short prose #my writing

[plethora-of-words]

man i luv ur blog sm everythings so *eloquent*

how do u do it

aw tysm anon! writing whenever i feel even a sliver of inspiration haha

[plethora-of-words]

Performative Activism

We’ve all experienced it before - we open up Instagram at the end of a long day, just wanting a quick update on the lives of our friends and some celebrities before going to sleep. Rather, what appears on our feeds is an influx of new infographics, graphic videos, and trending hashtags on the bottom of every post regarding a current horrifying situation taking place in the world. Suddenly, multitudes of people who have posted nothing besides regular life updates and selfies for months are constantly reposting, retweeting, and liking posts about said situation, under the claim of ‘activism.’ This sort of activism is generally referred to as performative activism. 

Performative activism is defined as activism done in order to increase one's social capital and power, rather than because of devotion to the cause at hand. It is not a practice, or a long-standing dedication to a social justice or world issue such as proper activism. It is short lived and based on external factors - such as which issues are trending- rather than a personal interest or passion. The driving force of this problem is undoubtedly social media. It leads to people getting stuck in the mindset of wanting to appear ‘woke’ or well informed on the most current or popular issues, in order to gain more followers and attention. Social media also indirectly puts pressure onto people to post about these topics in order to fit in with the rest, or to prove that they’re also a good person who cares about social issues. Some may be seeking praise while engaging in performative activism, while others may just be ensuring that nobody comes at them for their silence. Despite the individual reason behind it, it’s undeniable that social media plays the largest role in propelling this phenomenon across the globe. 

One example of this situation would be the BLM movement that began in June 2020, with ‘Blackout Tuesday’ being one of the most prominent aspects of it. On that day, masses of people posted a singular black square on their instagram accounts to show their support for the Black community. However, it proved to be rather counterproductive, with the millions of black squares flooding important information and useful hashtags. Further, many people who knew nearly nothing about BLM, or never engaged in anything productive, simply posted a black square like the rest and claimed that they were ‘invested.’ Similar issues arose more recently in regards to the Stop Asian Hate movement, and have been continuously occurring for years.

Evidently, performative activism is solely focused on the most trending or popular issues at the moment. Multitudes of people hop onto the bandwagon of them and follow suit. But this brings forth another important question - what is it that causes certain issues to gain a significantly larger amount of traction than others that are equally prevalent? What determines the extent to which the popularity of a topic spreads, and makes it trending? 

Youtuber Olisunvia explained the reason behind this with a term she coined herself -the “Social Justice Trend Cycle”. She explains that typically, the socio-political issues that get the most attention by the general public are the issues that are jarring, or have a significant amount of shock value. They may be more jarring than others for a number of reasons, such as the time they took place (such as a religious hate crime during a religious festival), or whether they have a graphic video/photo to accompany them (such as the George Floyd case). She continues to explain - “these videos provide disturbing visuals that, in a way, make these events feel real to us,” causing us to feel the pain of the catastrophe on a deeper level. Large media sources then realize that the public is posting more about the issue at hand, and therefore choose to cover it to receive clicks, which in turn enforces the story in the general publics’ mind to a greater extent than before. This creates a sort of loop between the media and general public, which keeps going on and on until a new shocking issue takes its place. 

Even though performative activism is so common and nearly everyone with a social media account is guilty of it at some point or another, it does not diminish the serious consequences that it comes with. 

The main issue with performative activism is the way in which important social justice issues are generally reduced to being nothing but a trend. As we’ve seen, the issues that are most jarring typically gain the most popularity, and therefore, are trending for a certain period of time. But what happens after this period of time is over? What happens once the general public and media stop constantly posting about these topics because something new has come up? These issues are simply forgotten, even though they rage on long after they’re done being talked about. It creates the false notion that an issue is insignificant or even outdated as soon as its media coverage has decreased, stripping it of its complexities as a result. This also leads to certain issues that aren’t as jarring being brushed under the rug. As it’s all based on a trend cycle as well, people tend to develop very surface-level understandings of topics rather than researched ones, to be able to speak about it before it’s no longer ‘relevant.’ 

It gets even worse. Not only does performative activism accomplish nothing productive - it tends to demean those who are genuinely fighting for a cause silently, or behind the scenes, just because it’s not as loud. Journalist Yomi Adegoke calls it the ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ approach to grief. For instance, if somebody donates to an organization but doesn’t mention it or post about it, people feel as if it no longer counts just because they didn’t see the support firsthand. This is extremely problematic, because those who are doing authentic good never get the credit they deserve; rather, they’re invalidated. Further, companies and organizations who profit off of yearly events for minority groups - such as pride month - tend to get more recognition for their ‘support and activism’ when compared to people who are less socially active but much more invested and passionate about the same. It’s completely unfair and discourages anything useful being done. 

It’s not always easy to avoid getting caught up in performative activism, and to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. We’re bound to slip up and make mistakes in the process, but it’s the little things that count. Listen to the problem at hand, do your due research, and take action once you’re educated and invested. What you’re doing doesn’t always have to go on social media; as long as it’s creating any amount of change, no matter how small or how big, it’s worth it.

#insta has been pretty horrible for the past week #with all the guilt-tripping #and 'i can see who doesn't repost this' nonsense #it doesnt actually accomplish anything productive #so i figured this was a good time to post this #social media #nonfiction #writing #performative activism #my writing #media #writers on tumblr #activism #essay

[plethora-of-words]

To dance

i) It starts confused. The lights dim, and music pours softly out of the speakers, slowly filling up the room and its four inhabitants- almost like an invitation. Wide eyes stare at each other, silently asking- shall we? Shall we try to make our feet match the beat of the music, shall we try to move our arms as smooth as water, shall we try to replicate what we've seen on the screen and in movies for years til now? Shall we try to dance? A silent nod seems to pass through the room, and within moments, tiny hands clasp each other as they begin to spin and twirl. It's awkward, at first- all lanky limbs and stumbling footwork. Socks slip on the floor and foreheads knock into each other, but the music is getting louder and the day is getting later- and she’s getting more comfortable. New steps are invented and a breathless laughter begins to escape from her mouth as she slowly realizes what all the fuss was about. It was fun. ii) It gets easier, after. This time it's a dance birthday party, and though she's apprehensive, she feels herself vibrate a bit with excitement. The room is spacious, with music pounding out of the speakers adorning the walls. The ground vibrates under her feet, and this time, like a match to a fire, they roar to life, moving on their own accord. Every body part feels in sync- whether they are or not, she doesn't know- but what she does know is the laughter bubbling in her stomach. The way everyone screams the chorus of the song, the way the lights flicker when the beat drops, and the way there's a sense of unity amongst all of her friends. The way she knows that these are the moments she lives for, that these are the moments that fill up her hollowed bones and eat away at the inhibitions festering inside of her. The frenzy of shoes squeaking on the floor and wide grins the size of half-moons finally recedes hours later, with everyone panting but alive on the ground. An unspoken agreement carries throughout the room. Let's do this again. iii) And then, it becomes harder. She doesn't understand why her body doesn't move the same way it did a mere few years ago, she doesn't understand why the hubbub of a dance floor no longer swarms her with energy. The resounding beats feel like they're suffocating rather than rejuvinating, the room feels stuffy rather than exuberant- but why? Maybe it's because of the way her eyes keep flitting to others, making mental images of their moves next to hers. Maybe it's because of the way her new (but false) reputation as a good dancer seems to follow her around everywhere, like one’s shadow under sunlight. Maybe it's because of the way she feels the press of eyes on her, the way she swears her friends’ mouths’ tilted up when she finally found the courage to let loose and ignore the inhibitions that had taken over in recent years. Maybe it's because of the way there's always a voice burning in her brain telling her to be good, to be outstanding, or that there’s no point at all. And then, it’s not freeing. It’s all too much. Without another word, she lets her feet carry her away.

#venting #not sure if this makes much sense to others #but just got back from a school dance party #and this pretty much sums up all of my feelings #writing #prose #original prose #writers on tumblr #spilled thoughts #spilled feelings #spilled ink #dancing #dance parties #social gatherings #insecurities #self esteem #dance #my writing #short prose

[plethora-of-words]

The romanticization of mental illness in media

Mental health and mental illness are topics that have been heavily stigmatized in the past, with diagnoses of depression, anxiety, etc. spoken of in hushed tones and a source of gossip within societies. Thankfully, this stigma has been challenged in recent years, allowing mental illness to become a more popular topic of discussion- both in our daily lives, and in none other than the media.

The media placing more emphasis and awareness on mental illness is not inherently a bad thing, rather, it can be quite beneficial when educating and informing those who do not struggle with one themselves. It also contributes to breaking down the final walls of stigma surrounding this topic, which could help encourage those who are in need of help to seek it. The problem arises when this spread in recognition results in mental health issues being romanticized and glamorized, propagating a plethora of false notions. 

One of the main culprits of romanticizing mental illness has been social media sites, namely TikTok, Tumblr, and Instagram. Back in the early 2010’s, Tumblr was known for being filled with artistic, black and white photos of pretty girls with an extremely sad or depressing quote pasted over the top, such as “suicidal people are just angels who want to go home.” Posts along these lines became widespread and began to appeal to more and more teens, eventually making it seem as if depression, anxiety, and eating disorders were a quirky personality trait, or so ‘tragically beautiful’ that they needed to be sought-after. People were convinced that having a mental illness would make them more unique or more desirable, leading to mental illness being unfairly reduced to a mere trend. More recently, this issue has become more prominent on Instagram and TikTok. Popular TikTokers and Instagram influencers are starting to offer ‘free mental health advice’ while pretending to have mental health disorders to appear more ‘relatable’ to their fans. 

TV shows are also guilty of this phenomenon, with one of the most popular ones being ‘13 reasons why,’ on Netflix. The characters in the show are argued to have no personality outside of their trauma, and the show portrays suicide as an act of revenge when that’s rarely the case. In addition, the main character who commits suicide is never described to be suffering from any mental illness, despite the fact that 46% of those who die by suicide already have a diagnosed one. All of these factors and more caused suicide rates in teens to increase by 13.3% after the show’s release, proving the significant consequences of misrepresentation in the media. The main character also became a sort of inspiration or ‘mysterious beauty’ to teenage girls on Tumblr, once again propelling the harmful, misleading, aesthetic posts that were so popular several years ago. 

Slowly but steadily, mental illnesses (mainly depression, anxiety, and OCD) are starting to seem as if they’re almost a common experience, when in reality only 13% of the world’s population is truly affected. Having depression does not just mean feeling sad for a day or making a ‘depression cave’ to post on your TikTok account, while having an anxiety disorder is not the same as being anxious for an exam. Due to this newfound ideology, these serious illnesses are being used as adjectives while conversing, or being made the butt of many teenagers’ jokes. 

The weight of these illnesses and the ugly sides that come with experiencing them is starting to be diminished as the romanticization takes over. Those who are genuinely battling one may no longer feel like their struggle is valid, or may not voice their problems out of fear that they’ll solely add to the glamorization. Further, this sensationalization can lead to people believing that they can never heal, and must accept their mental illness as a permanent part of themself. The very reason people fought so hard for representation was so that mental illness sufferers would feel less alone, and encouraged to reach out for help- and now, the very opposite is being accomplished.  Moving forward, it’s important for people to be more mindful of how accurately they’re portraying mental illness, whether it’s simply posting on Tumblr or the producers of a TV show. Destigmatizing it was a large step in itself, but there’s always scope to do better. Awareness should help people get better and work towards overcoming their illness, not make it seem like an aesthetic- that is the representation that should be encouraged in the media.

#even though I wrote this for school #it's still a topic I feel strongly about #plus it never hurts to spread some more awareness #especially considering that tumblr was one of the main perpetrators anyway #my writing #writing #writers on tumblr #essay #mental illness #mental health #media #romanticization of mental illness #non-fiction

[plethora-of-words]

Crooked Pathways

CW: implied self harm Repent for your sins, it whispers to me, always. Repent for the way you wrote that exam, the way you couldn’t help that friend, the way nothing on your to-do list got completed. Somedays it feels louder than whispers, louder than a buzzing at the back of my mind. It's a scream, seemingly echoing larger than life itself. It’s demanding to be heard, piercing and brazen, a shockwave vibrating throughout my entire being. I move along with it mindlessly, a captive to my jailer, stuck in a prison cell built by my bloodied hands. It’s hard to tell where it stemmed from. It's hard to tell when its roots were planted and what nourished it, what fed it, what allowed it to grow from a seedling into an oak tree. So strong and formidable, turning it eventually into the menace that it is today. It's not black and white. It's not as simple as cause and effect. There is no direct correlation with another variable.  I wonder endlessly, ponder all possibilities. I think of the little tree outside of my house when I was in grade school, one whose stem was so weak it needed special rods to hold it up. Did I need them too? Did anyone ever hold them out to me with loving hands, plant them to my side, and tell me- lean on these for support? I think about the time I strolled through the park with a friend after class, and came upon one of the most crooked trees I'd ever seen before. Its trunk almost seemed to curl in on itself, with its branches outstretched and its leaves like the palm of a hand, face up and waiting for something to reach out, to bathe them in warmth and light. ‘It probably didn't get enough sunlight while growing,' my friend had said, gesturing to the dense woodland it was amidst.  I know it’s a part of the human experience, afterall, to sometimes not understand our own emotions. But how wonderful it would be to navigate the pathways carved in my mind with as much clarity as I had walked through the trails in that park all those years ago. How wonderful it would be to finally understand the ever-present, burning question of why. 

#does anyone have any ideas for what to title this? #writing #prose #short prose #writers on tumblr #my writing #spilled thoughts #spilled words #mental health #spilled ink #spilled emotions

[plethora-of-words]

it's the worst feeling when you feel like you're failing in every single aspect of your life and it feels like you're suffocating everywhere you go

#be it home or school #nothing at all feels right anymore #ik this isnt writing im sorry #i just had to get it out somewhere