Bora mutlu, gözü çekirdek ailesinde. Noir, Nazlı ve Zeytin. Üçüde bahçede, çimlerin üzerinde, güneşli bayram gününde. Oğşu, annesinin dizine uzanmış iken; nazlı kızı annesiyle birlikte topladığı bayram harçlıklarını hesap ediyor. Hayali bile güzell

~maçakızı8

Hopeless is at Home

Do you know what a perpetual winter feels like?

I close my eyes and my head trembles,

like the breath of cold wind has soaked into my hair

Freezing up my skull

This unshakeable headache

I've got to get inside.

When I cross over the threshold

I'm met with empty cabinets

Through the stillness

I hear the dust particles dancing in sunbeams

Cascading, caressing so to make the floorboards squeak

No one's here to ask me why I'm rummaging

Barren, this ruin. I'm ruined.

I found a mirror

Reflections of the dead show in the wrinkles under my eyes

and I collapse to my knees on the staircase

Crying over a ghost from years of my past long gone

Let the shards rip through my skin

If a sacrifice is required then I'll bleed myself.

The centre of every poem is this: i have loved you. I have had to deal with that.

Joe Thomas

Mischief Managed

The world (especially the west) watches the colonizers attacking innocent Palestinian people and no one is doing anything. The Palestinians can't go anywhere. Children are crying. Children are getting killed on their own land that is being oppressed for decades.

yeah and what about it

It's astonishingly difficult to believe that anyone could be thinking about me right now, and more difficult to believe that someone in this very world would look at me someday like I were to define the word beauty. Like I were a piece of art that some reknown painter had exhibited his skills upon. Like I were to be the answer to of all his silent and fondest prayers. What makes it difficult for me to believe that someone would one day acknowledge how complex I am ? Maybe it's because the root of it all that is Love, seems to be abstract in practicality and that it only exists in books, arts, music, and so forth.

3:29 am 14. May. 2021

Thomas

how to be an ANTIRACIST

“A mission to uncover and critique America’s life of racist ideas turned into a mission to uncover and critique my life of racist ideas, which turned into a lifelong mission to be antiracist.

It happens for me in successive steps, these steps to be antiracist. 

I stop using the “I’m not a racist” or “I can’t be racist” defense of denial.

I admit the definition of racist (someone who is supporting racist policies or expressing racist ideas).

I confess the racist policies I support and racist ideas I express.

I accept their source (my upbringing inside a nation making us racist).

I acknowledge the definition of antiracist (someone who is supporting antiracist policies or expressing antiracist ideas).

I struggle for antiracist power and policy in my spaces. (Seizing a policymaking position. Joining an antiracist organization or protest. Publicly donating my time or privately donating my funds to antiracist policymakers, organizations, and protests fixated on changing power and policy.)

I struggle to remain at the antiracist intersections where racism is mixed with other bigotries. (Eliminating racial distinctions in biology or behavior. Equalizing racial distinctions in ethnicities, bodies, cultures, colors, spaces, genders, and sexualities.)

I struggle to think with antiracist ideas. (Seeing racist policy in racial inequity. Leveling group differences. Not being fooled into generalizing individual negativity. Not being fooled by misleading statistics or theories that blames people for racial inequity.)

Racist ideas fooled me nearly my whole life. I refuse to allow them to continue making a fool out of me, a chump out of me, a slave out of me. I realized there is nothing wrong with any of the racial groups and everything wrong with individuals like me who think there is something wrong with any of the racial groups. It felt so good to cleanse my mind.”

-Ibram X. Kendi, “How to be an Antiracist”

@whathefuckishappening

A smaller portion of the virus is injected into our blood in time intervals forcing our immune to fight off the bacteria.

soon our immune system becomes strong enough to endure the virus that it becomes capable of handling the stronger virus.

Maybe that's how pain works! we become so used to this suffering and agony that after the numerous battle it becomes very irrelevant for us. the numbness.

Bookmarks I found in the pages of the books on my shelf:

Bus tickets

Receipts

Coffee sleeves

Museum tickets

Photographs

Folded up Greek transcriptions

Love letters I’ve never responded to

Love letters I never sent

Postcards

Subway cards for cities I don’t live in

To do lists

Tea tags

Actual bookmarks

where is the henry to my camilla

Georgina

The mist of the night blinds the one who wish not to know, but lifts the ones who seek out their knowledge. The dark mute tones of tapestry are rough and smooth against our skin. The leather bindings that protects centuries of words spoken by the greatest of greats, indulge us further into our unhealthy obsession. We can't stop and we won't, this our escape the reality we will convince ourselves is real but know the true terms. We'll run away from responsibilities and chase this feeling of freedom forever and always.

Christina

trigonometry can suck my 10 foot dick.

13.05.2021.

The art museum has reopened (with restrictions) so I decided to spend my day studying there. It's nice to have a change of scenery once in a while.

I never took an elective on philosophy in my undergrad but I've always been interested in it so here we are, starting a copy of Plato's Symposium and Phaedrus that I picked up at a used bookshop last year. There's absolutely no structure to my self-study(?) at the moment; seeing as I have no idea how much time I'll be able to spend on it, I figured I'd be better off just starting and following my curiosity. I'm working to compile a reading list (ignoring my terrible track record with reading lists) to make my way through - if you have any suggestions please let me know!

🎶 No More Losing the War - Half Moon Run.

Tombstone of angel I St. Petersburg, Russia I 1874 I Photograph Aleksandro Nevskaia