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When I run after what I think I want,
My days are a furnace of distress and anxiety;
If I sit in my own place of patience,
What I need flows to me,
And without any pain.From this I understand that
What I want also wants me,
Is looking for me
And attracting me;
When it cannot attract me
Any more to go to it,
It has to come to me.There is a great secret
In this for anyone
Who can grasp it.- Rumi
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Here’s the thing
Grief is at once personal and public.
I am giving myself permission to literally wear pain as a dress
To gape like a wound
To employ whatever sexist and/or gendered metaphor it takes to convey how vulnerable and alive and crushed I feel
To express my grief through esoteric blog posts
and by taking photos of myself crying
Not because I’m a narcissist or any other label you’d like to bestow, but because the moment
THIS MOMENT
is mine and I’m taking it and I’m going to have it for all time, so I’m going to own it
Because it is no one else’s
And it will never be anyone else’s
And my brother would tell me the same thing: “you do you, to hell with what anyone else thinks”
And he would say: “you are who you are”
And I don’t feel bad about it one fucking bit.
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“You ask would I have done it for a husband or a child my answer is no I would not. A husband or a child can be replaced but who can grow me a new brother. Is this a weird argument, Kreon thought so but I don’t know. The words go wrong they call my piety impiety, I’m alone on my insides I died long ago.”
– “Antigonick (Sophokles),” Anne Carson
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But what interests me is that mansplainers—who are not only men—are found in abundance in loud places, and they are often seen emitting facts very close to people’s faces: people who do not seem thrilled about receiving them. Maybe there’s no hope for mansplainers after all. They thrive in loud arenas: militaries, concerts, bars that are brightly lit and have not been kept hidden from college students, lobbies, lines at coffee shops, city sidewalks, fallow acreages where dogs are barking. They would not agree with me, or even with the absurdly sexist ghost of Schopenhauer, about distractions. They would produce a statistic that argues in favor of keeping your mind alert or of multi-tasking, which light reading in bed at night has assured me is a fruitless way to engage my mind.
Total Noise And Complete Saturation by Christine Gosnay. Art by Clare Nauman.
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"The problem is no longer getting people to express themselves, but providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don’t stop people from expressing themselves, but rather, force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or ever rarer, the thing that might be worth saying."