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#tired

The Black Community does not give one fuck about Black children and it’s blatant at this point.

All the rampant pedophilia and abuse is glossed over and ignored and we’re told we can’t deal with it because “white supremacy” is more important.

Street harassment is deemed “not that bad” even though Black girls have been killed for rejecting men. Black girls as young as EIGHT are being catcalled by grown men and nobody says anything.

They’re putting their kids in harms way by taking them to protests with violent police officers.

It’s just sad. Glad I won’t be raising my kids in Blackistan and I’m glad I don’t live in the hood anymore.

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Friday, 5 June 2020 

Hello everyone!  I truly hope everyone is safe and in good health. 

This past week has been absolutely crazy so far! I’ve literally not left my room for 3 days and it was only yesterday I decided to take a day off and rest…I HAD TO. I’ve been back and forth with one of my lecturers trying to figure out why I can’t see my marks for one of the tests I wrote on my online platform - and I’ve been stressing non-stop about writing 3 exam papers next week. I think I’m going mad. I keep trying to tell myself to take deep breaths and giving myself time to rest, but it’s so ridiculously difficult when you’re one of those people who can’t stop working once you start. 

Well, I’m off again. Going to study the Aims and Objectives of a lesson by using Bloom’s Taxonomy.

P.S Also thinking about starting a vlog - I’ll share more of that a bit later.

wanderwoman-2001
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Is the canvas the art? Is it the paint, or the brush? Is it the mind of the artist? Can art only be spectacular if it’s flawless?


Then why can’t you accept that you are art? Your soul creates an image, you eat and exercise and dress and do your hair and your makeup. You laugh, and you sing, and cry, and you scream. Your every act, motion, and word is the artist deep within you expressing itself with all the colors and tools at it’s disposal.


Why must you focus on the lines you once had to erase in order for the art to appear as you’d like? That is not what I see when looking upon you, and it’s not a thing I care to concern myself with. There is too much to see and explore and learn now without having to go back and worry myself too much about the things you changed your mind about, or chose to erase.


To me you are perfect. You are a little bit of everything, and a whole lot of what I love. Let me stare at you forever. Allow me to learn every line and every shade, because as the kaleidoscope of life turns, I will not see this work of art in exactly this way again, and I wish to memorize it. Yet somehow, despite the way it changes, you are simply you. As complex as you may be, you’re still you.

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Misery loves company? 

Not mine. Solitude. Shutting Down, shutting out. 

That’s my thing. 

I’ve never been a fan of the whole…

‘look at me! I’m suffering!’ thing 

I am sad again though…. I thought I was okay for a bit 

Turns out I was just busy to notice the line of demons to face 

Nothing makes me sadder than the fact that it seems like a recurrent theme in my life to suffer. 

School - suffering 

Family - suffering 

Job - suffering because of family 

Mind - suffering. the rain of sadness pelting against the inside of my head 

Spirit - suffering. consumed by guilt. bruised by ambition.

Heart - suffering. I can’t let go of the anger residing in my disappointment. 

And the shit show continues. 


I am currently wearing a pair of converse chuck taylors that are so distraught you can almost see the intention seeping from the rips and violated seams. 

told myself I’d keep wearing them until he came back but he never did and I never stopped wearing them. 

And that is the constant state of affairs in my entirety. 

a little too much hope 

a little too much faith 

a little TOO MUCH FUCKING need for a silver lining 

a ray of hope 

an allegiance to consistency granted by God Himself

The bitterness in the back of my throat scorches the flesh fickled 

from the constant cat and mouse game I’ve been called to play with

the idea of my composure and the thrashing consequence of waking up every morning

Cat and mouse game I lose every time.

Cat and mouse game I live everyday.

Arena brimmed with supporters of the win not the cause.

Surrounded by the selfish presented as the nonchalant.

Loneliness the loudest groupie.

Melancholy the colours splattered in the empty room of my 

existence’s needs addressed. 


But hey………. who cares right? 


Clementine Anne Strachan 

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