Tuesday, April 22, 2014
It’s crazy leaving
the dreams on your lips
and knowing
you’re still everything
I believe in;
knowing you’re truer
than anything I could
Brian Dominguez (via h0wled-h0riz0ns)
When you’re traveling, you are what you are, right there and then. People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road. William Least Heat-Moon (via psych-facts)



the thing to realize here is that conservatives find the idea of paying workers a livable wage so absurd that they make hyperbolic comparisons like this

because fifteen dollars an hour and a hundred thousand dollars an hour both mean the same thing to them; more than you deserve

^That commentary is very important.

(Source: -teesa-)

“No te entiendo” which means “I do not understand you,” was a category in the Mexican casta system in early colonial history. I was researching the differences between the casta system in Perú and México, and when I came to that category, the idea that colonialists would classify someone as so “mixed” they were no longer anything other than a confusion, I laughed. This space of being not entirely understood because of what you are or what your interests are in, to be mistranslated because someone is unable to translate you, your body, your being… I like investigating that space. This is important to me, because I insist to see myself as an artist—to write, to make sound, to make video, to produce, to curate, to dance, to juggle identities confuses people. I also enjoy mistranslating, because words never truly mean what you expect them to mean. LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs, in an Interview with Walker Magazine (via commovente)
Tuesday, April 15, 2014


Alyson Provax - Time Wasting Experiment (2011)

text message



There’s a good chance you’re not reading these
Im moving on, are you?
I almost said im moving on I dont remember the last time it hurt to lie
Im moving into the bottom of a bottle of hard liqour come and get me when you want me back

Thanks for the blue tag on this piece editor :)


“He loves me but not enough. Not as much as he loves her.”


He loves me but not enough. Not as much as he loves her.”

You once told me that I will breathe again, bleed again, but not for the same reason. You once told me that it’s better to paint my walls with pain than to feel nothing. From me to you, I want you to place your own words in your mouth and taste the truth in them. This time around, this is for the lady with a fragmented soul.

My dear, you are more than your inks and your words. You are more than the bandages you tuck in your pockets in case your heart or body bleeds again. You are more than the red paint splashed late at night when your ears are ringing from the overwhelming noise around you and when your eyes open the floodgates of pain. You are more than the screams and cries you gather and store in your lungs. You are more than the deserts, train tracks, and road cracks you’ve mapped on your body. You are more than the voices in your head suffocating you in their whirlwind of lies and drowning you in their abyssal sea of darkness.

You inhale everything around you, even the ones that prick your skin, burn your eyes, and slice your soul. But no matter how much you try to exhale all of them out, you can’t seem to be able to do so completely. I see you struggling. I’ve talked to you when you were struggling. My dear, if the world seems like it’s against you and the things you’ve inhaled are constricting your veins, I’ll be here holding out my hand from where I am. From me to you, you will be fine. I know words can only offer comfort to a certain extent, but when your hands are shaking late at night, when your eyes are fighting to keep the flood at bay, when your body is bolting to leave, when your mind is screaming too loudly, and when your lungs are yearning to give their last exhale, I want you to go outside and look at the sky. Whether it be dusk or dawn, whether it be raining or shining, feel the air and reach for the sky. Close your eyes and remember to breathe in and out. There’s a whole universe inside you. You might be feeling heavy right now, but I can tell you that you will feel light again. You will soar up to the heavens and fly past your sorrows and aches.

a letter for the lady with inks and words (NJ.)
When you are right, you can’t be too radical; when you are wrong, you can’t be too conservative. Martin Luther King Jr.  (via fandomsandfeminism)

(Source: caramelzappa)

These days, before we talk about misogyny, women are increasingly being asked to modify our language so we don’t hurt men’s feelings. Don’t say, “Men oppress women” – that’s sexism, as bad as any sexism women ever have to handle, possibly worse. Instead, say, “Some men oppress women.” Whatever you do, don’t generalise. That’s something men do. Not all men – just some men.

This type of semantic squabbling is a very effective way of getting women to shut up. After all, most of us grew up learning that being a good girl was all about putting other people’s feelings ahead of our own. We aren’t supposed to say what we think if there’s a chance it might upset somebody else or, worse, make them angry. So we stifle our speech with apologies, caveats and soothing sounds. We reassure our friends and loved ones that “you’re not one of those men who hate women”.

What we don’t say is: of course not all men hate women. But culture hates women, so men who grow up in a sexist culture have a tendency to do and say sexist things, often without meaning to. We aren’t judging you for who you are but that doesn’t mean we’re not asking you to change your behaviour. What you feel about women in your heart is of less immediate importance than how you treat them on a daily basis.

You can be the gentlest, sweetest man in the world yet still benefit from sexism. That’s how oppression works.
Of course all men don’t hate women. But all men must know they benefit from sexism  (via albinwonderland)
Monday, April 14, 2014
I want to wake up at 2am, roll over, see your face, and know that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. i love you (via the-psycho-cutie)
Experience is a brutal teacher, but you learn. My god, do you learn. C. S. Lewis (via hefuckin)

(Source: psych-facts)