the thing about tumblr that i think i’ll miss the most if it goes down is the like…quiet companionship on this site. i’m not talking about like knowing there are other people here who have the same views you do, or who don’t judge you for being honest and expressing yourself, though those are all good. i mean like…the mutuals you’ve had for years who you don’t talk to but you know. you might not know them well but it makes you happy when they post a cute selfie, or talk about something good that happened at their job. familiar names. little friendships. little connections in the vast sea of the internet, where you have to choose between total anonymity or sharing everything. we built communities in this hellscape and i don’t want to say goodbye to my neighbors just yet.
(no-euclidianosから)
me: wants to be multilingual, a musical prodigy, an artist, an author, a poet, an honour student, working in a well-paying job, successful and happy
me: sits on my couch eating three(3) party-sized bags of salt and vinegar potato chips and watching thirty-one(31) episodes of my favourite tv show in one sitting
(元記事： nymphstudy (wolfsmilkから))
kavanaugh was confirmed to the u.s. supreme court after all.
i wish i had more to say about it. i wish i could even be surprised, but i’m not. so many of us aren’t.
who do you think hurts worse, the women blindsided by this betrayal, or the women who see this as one more piece of evidence that this is not a world meant for us?
it was inevitable. i don’t know why i hoped against hope. i don’t know why i believed that maybe justice could be served. they may use a woman’s face to represent justice, but they spit in a woman’s face when she tries to enforce it.
it’s gotten so hollow, this heart of mine, but it still aches when i see the grief upon the faces of women i love, as we know exactly what this means: we mean very little in the eyes of society.
this is a country that hates women. this is a country that cannot stand the very notion that women are people, and will do its best to remind us at any time that what rights we have are tenuous and unstable and could be revoked whenever.
and even with rights, our social standing means nothing. our word against his? his will always win out. our spaces over theirs? theirs will always win out. we are told, in no uncertain terms, that it’d behoove us to hide ourselves in the shadows, or to run away completely.
but the worst part is knowing we can never run away from misogyny, for there is no country to flee to, no land where we’re safe. there is no utopia where women can be protected, only places where women are sometimes treated a little better - depending on the woman.
we will always be targets. always, always, always.
and people will always celebrate our destruction. always, always, always.
there is that saying that goes around, that many women take to heart: we are the granddaughters of the witches you couldn’t burn.
what about the daughters of these witches? did they ever think the world would be like this? when they bore daughters of their own, swaddled and sleepy-eyed, did they ever fear that another era of witch hunting would be in their futures?
maybe they believed in the resilience of women, across time and history. times where women had to poison themselves to be free of pregnancies, where women had to invent languages of their own to be able to read and write, where women were kept in harems and in shackles and in marriages to men too old to walk when they themselves had just started bleeding.
i, too, believe in the resilience of women - but i hate that our strength must come from bearing a hundred crosses. we are formidable, but only because of what we withstand. when will we be recognized on the merit of what we built, rather than what we survive?
it’s a dark day for women, but no darker than any other day, i think. it’s easy to forget that women suffer everywhere. so many crimes against women that go unnoticed simply because who cares?
who cares about the girls in villages, only ever seen as the cup half-empty compared to their brothers, these daughters valued less than their dowries?
who cares about the women in brothels, with their heads on their pillows, in a constant state of dreaming so they can get through the nightmare of reality?
who cares about the elders in nursing homes, abused and abandoned by the very children they helped create, their milk and their blood meaning nothing in the end?
are they really crimes when you don’t even consider us human enough to be victims? are they really crimes when they’re so commonplace, you can’t imagine putting down laws to prevent them?
i don’t know where i’m going with this. i write and i write and i write, and i never feel closer to answers. i never feel closer to a deeper understanding, a peace of mind; i only feel closer to rage, as if my despondence is a seed preparing to break free of the soil.
i stop and i ask myself, is my rage pointless? is my rage impotent? is my rage hopeless? i am only one woman among many.
but when i write, i like to believe that i reach out to these many women, and i join them; and as powerless as i feel and as crushed as my spirits are, they will help heal me.
they weld the pieces of me back together until i am whole again. when their hearts fracture, i use the same technique that i was taught, from one sister to another.
when i see new faces around, sore and bleeding, i will begin the cycle anew and show them that our strength isn’t only in whatever pain we can endure: that we can build things, too. wonderful things, that need not matter in the eyes of men to be good.
we have never built a country, but instead we build connections. we hold group meetings, make mailing lists, call each other and write to each other and form our own homes within each other.
under shrouds of darkness, we’ll light each other’s candles. to lead each other, to honor each other, to serve as signals to each other. when we are lost at sea, we will find the beacon, one way or another.
they will always try to bring us down in any way they can. always, always, always.
but against all odds, we’ll always be here.
always, always, always.
“i don’t know where i’m going with this. i write and i write and i write, and i never feel closer to answers. i never feel closer to a deeper understanding, a peace of mind; i only feel closer to rage, as if my despondence is a seed preparing to break free of the soil.”
I feel this in my blood and in my bones, sister. If there is an answer, I think women’s rage is a piece of it.
(wolfsmilkから)
me: I should shower! it will energize me
me, after showering: so…sof and cleen .. .. must na p
(wolfsmilkから)
