|Teacher:||Write about stakeholders.|
|Me:||I aint need no one to hold my steak.|
i dont want my words to be taken out of context
i dont want to be infantilized because i refuse to be sexualized
i dont want to be molested at shows or on the street by people who perceive me as an object that exists for their personal satisfaction
i dont want to live in a world where…
I already hate uni. Somebody shoot me.
This sux tho. I need a coffee but all I have is cold spaghetti.
Charalanahzard is super beautiful and her hair is fantastic but mostly I just like what it says under the photo haha.
? (also thank you :D:D)
I’m hating uni too. Being drunk isn’t helping, just making me sleepy
So many choices, damn you university. If I had wanted this many choices I would have gone to idk…specsavers.. yeah, that’ll do..
I think I’m gay for sushi trains.
“You know, it’s quite an undertaking to start loving somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness… There is even a moment, right at the start, where you have to jump across an abyss: if you think about it you don’t do it.
- Anny, Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea.
I often hear people say that what we hate in others is really what we hate about ourselves. It’s our self-loathing interfering with the outside world. It’s all a projection of our anxieties, our insecurities, our never ending fear of mirrors and dark nights and all the echoes (echoes echoes) of the voice we have to live with every day. We’re so ready, almost eager, to hate ourselves. What does this imply about love? Does it mean that what we love in others is a reflection of what we love in ourselves? It’s harder to admit to, but you know it’s there. For in books, in music, in lovers and friends, it’s not the absence of our beliefs and qualities we search for. It’s their presence.
I listen for myself in songs and search for characters who speak in my voice, I fall for the poets who remind me of who I am, the novelists who make me think in sentences rather than intangibles and make me want to write. And oh, I become infatuated with musicians, with the way a man’s hands look settled on an instrument, the way his body responds to sound. I fall to pieces as he sings along to the radio or smiles when I ask him to pause mid-conversation for that perfect moment in the album that makes the entire world fade.
[We speak the same language, live parallel lives
on the same wavelength.
Our words and thoughts touch and blur together, merging, and
suddenly I can’t concentrate, I can’t hear what you’re saying and
I can’t hear myself think and I’m almost touching you but
not quite and I just need to be touching you.]
I use music and books and art as a bridge, a cheat sheet to a person’s mind. I hold up our common tastes as evidence of some kind of shared perception, desperately hoping that they listen and read as I do. That’s rarely the case, but I can still pour through their music collection, listening for any hints of myself in what they love.
[I search for
drama and intensity and the unique,
for people I haven’t met a thousand times before]
Or I used to.
It was a habit that fit me nicely in the past, that sat well with the version of myself I was at 15, 16, 17. But I’ll be 20 in 3 months, and I like symbolism too much not to hope that means something.
I interact differently now. I’m not as afraid of the blank looks or dismissive comments. I’ve developed an appreciation for directness that outweighs the fear.
Now I ask questions instead -
How do you listen?
How do you hear?
How can I hear what you do?
What do you search for?
What is it that you need to fall in love with a song?
What do you need to fall in love with a person?
[I wish I could hear and see exactly as they do,
exactly as anyone does,
just for a second,