From the Wikipedia page about the Fermi Paradox: Given the high scientific probability for alien existence, why can we find no evidence of their existence whatsoever?
A poem about loneliness
who are the most beautiful people you've ever seen and why are they your parents in pictures from when you were a baby
summer of indulgences. takeout for dinner two nights in a row. glass after glass of cold peach juice. scratching mosquito bites for the sensuous pleasure of it. climbing past the point of my fingers giving out. taking the long way home. gently pressing the bruises on my heart just to feel the twinge
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In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”
apocalyprince-deactivated201212
Emma Kisiel holds a bachelor of fine arts with an emphasis in photography from the University of Colorado Denver. “At Rest” is a photographic series depicting roadkill on American highways and addressing our human fear of confronting death and viewing the dead. Kisiel’s images draw attention to the fact that, while man has a vast impact on animal and natural life, dominant American religions insist that animals do not have a place in Heaven and are, therefore, of little value in our society. To cause the viewer to feel struck by this truth, Kisiel photographs memorials she builds surrounding roadkill at the location at which its life was taken. “At Rest” expresses the sacredness to the bodies of animals accidentally hit by vehicles while crossing the road.
i like to pretend i already died and asked god to send me back to earth so i can swim in lakes again and see mountains and get my heart broken and love my friends and cry so hard in the bathroom and go grocery shopping 1,000 more times. and that i promised i would never forget the miracle of being here
Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, Amy Krouse Rosenthal
every august without fail is like i will give you some of the most beautiful golden summer moments of your life but also you will be thinking about childhood and loss constantly. it will always be either 5pm or 2am
ah the world is so beuatiful and wonderfull peace on earth forever and foreevr
postcards say IM HERE. IM HERE AND I LOVE YOU. IN THIS SPACE AND TIME AND WHEREVER AND WHENEVER YOU ARE. THERE IS A SPACE BETWEEN THOSE SPACES THAT CONNECTS US AND ITS FULL OF LOVE. I’LL MEET YOU THERE.
a good experience more people on this website should have is confidently bringing up some leftist talking point you picked up from tumblr around family members, only for them to ask extremely basic and predictable followup questions/rebuttals that you have no response to because you just internalized the three-paragraph post with 3k notes. this only needs to happen a few times for the lesson to stick and the sooner the better
When it's snowy in the evening and the world turns blue..............and some of you would have me believe winter is bad. LOL!