hey. don’t cry. crush four cloves of garlic into a pot with a dollop of olive oil and stir until golden then add one can of crushed tomatoes a bit of balsamic vinegar half a tablespoon of brown sugar and stir for a few minutes adding a handful of fresh spinach until wilted and mix in half a cup of grated parmesan cheese and pasta of your choice ok?
we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.
I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.
I have seen fathers cradle their dead children, seen them kiss their faces and hold their little hands. I have seen them faint with grief when asked to identify the dead. I have seen them carry their sons and daughters. I have seen them fasting to provide what little they can for their families.
I have seen men and boys digging through the rubble with just their bare hands, I have seen them comforting strangers, playing with children, rocking them, hushing them, even if the face of such imminent danger. I have seen them cry, seen them grieve, seen them break down into each other's arms, seen them be selfless, beyond selfless, becoming something I don't have a word for.
I have seen the men who are doctors refuse to leave their patients, even when they have no medicine or supplies to give them, even when they're threatened with bombings. I have seen fathers who have lost all their children pick orphans up into their arms and proclaim them their child so they are not alone. I have seen men and boys digging pets out of the rubble.
the men are innocent too. the men and boys are being hurt and killed too. the men and boys are grieving too. the men and boys are scared too. the men and boys are fighting to save their people too. the men and boys deserve to be fought for too.
With The Boy and the Heron, Miyazaki really said: I accept that my legacy is out of my control, that my children may not be my successors, that this tremendous monument I've built with a lifetime of toil, this fiery blessing that simply fell out of the sky, may not continue without me, In fact, it may crumble to dust, I accept it because my children and their children are alive and well, in this imperfect world, and thats enough. Yes, I accept that this is the end, but God damn, I'll go out with a bang.
Am I saying this will be your new favourite show? That it will make you smile and shiver and puzzle and delight? That it's something really special? That it will ease the pain of waiting for other shows to happen?
I think in response to Twitter, Tumblr should make it so that you can't open any other apps on your phone until you've seen at least 600 posts for the day.
The urge to make him painfully hard when we're out in public.
To rub his inner thighs near his crotch while we're sitting next to each other, brush against his nipples by accident, whisper the most disgusting things into his ear, to kiss his pretty neck a second too long. To see him crumble, see his pupils dilate, his pants getting too tight.
To make him a dumb and blushy mess for me until he's not even able to talk, just waiting patiently like a good boy until I finally take him home.