The air too full of sorrow
A constant sense, these days decay
A flurry of locust words of hate
We shut the doors, stamping our feet
To brush the crawling fear from legs
The sky seems dark with winged power
Clouding views of anything else
Think again, we say, of simple days
- As if they ever were! -
Huddle in minds for fantasies stored
The Luther Kings, the Tubmans
The B. Anthonys, the Steinems
The rebels who signed their name
They stood in storms, refused to turn
And we rose from their love, we stand,
We have, because of them
Our story not hate, division
Our lives not cut into perfect lines
We are still one! if they forgot that
It’s time to stand again, remind them
Who we really are and what we’ve done
Whine to British about playing fair
We have rebel cores, let who falls fall
whenever anyone talks about advance developing AI to me in a serious capacity I can only think of them in terms of. more bodies men are going to want to fuck. and more competition for me. now i have to be prettier than the robots who already have an upper hand because they are built by men and not just sociologically but literally built by men and i start thinking about divorces in 2050 where husbands leave their families for a younger model but she’s metal and will never age and someday we’ll talk about how ok so now it’s not even ok for women to be stuck in a constant state of decay confined by flesh now she has to be bionic.
-Often times on the unlit roads, strange reflections of driver’s headlights shine back at you. Residents know to stop and let it pass, others drive on and pay the grave diggers twice.
-The city bustles around you, with the comforting buzz of traffic and pedestrians. You drive on when the light turns green, crossing the intersection, and the buildings and people are replaced with a lonely wilderness.
-Concussive thuds like a giant displaying its dominion can be heard at any time. Residents ignore it, visitors grow anxious, and investigators disappear.
-A wind carries in the aroma of the ocean, a mix of saltwater and crab. But it is only a wind, and soon you are reminded once more of the constant stench of death, decay, and rot.
-Your home is a target. You are a target. No one is sure whose sights are trained upon us. No one is sure when they will strike. But we are sure we are a target. We try our best not to mention it.
-You’re not sure which is scarier: seeing them watch you or not.
-In the summer even the very air will sweat, and it will do you no favors.
-The worst part of the car crash is not being thrown through your windshield and onto the pavement, nor is it having to watch the EMTs drag the passenger’s body away, but rather the cursory glances of thousands of eyes as they try to tell your blood from everyone else’s.
-It is best to memorize the roads during the day. The night is not so forgiving.
Photography, for me, isn’t just a way to highlight the beautiful things that the human eyes are used to catching, but a way to preserve the little moments that would otherwise be forgotten; moments that mold me into who I am today. In my eyes, photography is the unique art of stillness and preservation in a world that is in a constant cycle of decay and renewal.
We are born into a realm of constant change. Everything is decaying. We are continually losing all that we come in contact with. Our tendency to get attached to impermanent experiences causes sorrow, lamentation and grief, because eventually we are separated from everything and everyone we love. Our lack of acceptance and understanding of this fact makes life unsatisfactory.
Noah Levine, Against the Stream: A Buddhist Manual for Spiritual Revolutionaries
So some people think the world is in constant progress. Well, us hippies didn’t think so, we thought already then that it was in constant decay and destruction. Any natural type of life-style got coined as something wierd and outdated. Technological and economical progress was the rule of the day. The only problem is that in those days we were millions who turned against it, so there was a feeling of community. So what happened: The hippie-idea got commercialised and that was the end of it.
listen, fool, time doesn't exist. mondays are an arrogant and desperate attempt of mankind to recreate the concept of passing time as cyclical and reoccurring in order to subvert mortality and mechanize inevitable progression that is our decay and constant present.