πΌππ’ πΈπΎ, π·πΏπ·πΆβ¨ πππ π³ππππππ πΎπ π΅ππππ£ πΊππππ, π·πΏπ·πΆ-π·πΏπ·πΉ
Blue skies-embers of sunset-a little pink butterfly blown somewhere against its will. Reminds me of someone canβt remember who.
The days after school haven't met change
Since times seasons revolved round the sun
You still wait by the corner lane
And I walk up after the bells have rung.
We eat a mouthful of your smoke
And break off bits of corn to make cake
Before we slip into the deep red of the
Bell-cracked wine glass with a rake
On Wednesdays you say, my hair looks nice,
That's for the soap I needed to save till
The next month so we didn't run out of rice.
There is, you know, comfort in unwashed mill
And yet more softness in hands that are soiled
To the nails in lovers' mud and dust.
It is only the shortness of one arm that
Asks to be coupled to twos at first.
Still, your fingers are long enough
To meet both ends and still cup snow
For us to breathe in the iced snuff,
To keep awake among the rafters below
For a few moments more.
We laugh at eachother's smiles
Lie forgetting and run wilder than raccoons
In Philadelphian winters, though miles
Of shadow could never erase these monsoons.
Unless you make it so, these months
Don't hold weddings or coronations
Or those hourly bypasses to coffee haunts,
But as it is, the gaps are fit to ration.
It has always been the dry edge of monsoon
Since times the seasons revolved round the sun.
- pollosky-in-blue
Two days ago, I had gone up to the terrace to behold the sunset and breathe in some fresh air. I had always preferred the setting sun to the rising one, for soft dusk ensues after one while the other is succeeded by harsh daylight. Ah, for a world in which it is permanently twilight! The view from the place was one that might be seen from any building over two storeys high in the neighbourhood. It was rather the stark contrast of the sky at the opposite ends that piqued me. The east at sundown was a pale azure, almost unnatural in its monotonousness, disturbed only by a hazy sapphire mountain, whose original crude bareness was softened by the distance, imparting to it a hue reminiscent of the shade the sea is often associated with, but seldom found in. In the west meanwhile, the sun was letting afloat his final banners, on which seemed written all the wisdom of the mortal world, in a language nearer to me that the ones I had ever heard spoken or seen written, yet at the same time utterly incomprehensible. What is to be the use of poring over Greek and Latin if they donβt impart to me a knowledge of these transfixing scriptures? Here was a cloud whose ethereal inhabitants had borne the harsh rays of the sun all day and were now looking down with relief at his long awaited departure. What are you doing little one, so precariously perched at the edge? What are your irresponsible siblings thinking of? Have they gone to make arrangements for your moonlit revels? Ah, there comes your mother. She looks quite shocked. The chances of you wildly wandering in the gentle realms of cloudland soon again are not so high, are they? Look at your haze! One would think there was a storm approaching! How lonely your dwelling looks, a storm scud in the middle of pastel drifts! Another cloud, situated at a higher altitude than the previous one, part of it softly illuminated by the rays of the now setting sun was drifting by, as if determined to make the most of the sunlight by moving unhurriedly as possible. All this, coupled with the music of unconcernedly fluttering leaves, punctuated now and then by the sweet trill of some bird, with a mild breeze blowing in my face, made for a very pleasant evening spent in the company of two curious squirrels, and in the way most agreeable to me.
What more foolish than to believe happiness is the ultimate ambition of a society whose very foundation is built upon a thwarted craving for meaning and its pillars insatisfaction ? Unhappiness and insufficiency are the driving forces behind economic expansion. The horror of contentment, the very notion of it is injurious to capitalism. So, in a way, a constant search for and accumulation of wealth is equated with success and to not deliriously overwork oneself in the name of ambition becomes failure, or as an excellently absurd term puts it βwasted potentialβ. Perhaps the implication here that any ability to create or produce is disqualified to be of any value unless it is yielded in a way enabling it to be monetised is collectively unacknowledged by society, or consciously endorsed. A bit of prodding into this brings one to the despaired question. What indeed is humankindβs core want? Or in other words, what would compel a thinking person to serve bureaucracy if their fundamental need were met and a decent standard of living provided?
Also another thing that bothers me is the quasi-philosophical belief that suffering is somehow superior to happiness in both meaning and virtue. The dreadfulness of pain masquerades as intellectualism and, to borrow a phrase from LeGuin, the banality of evil is wrapped up in folds of mystery. The ideology that βsuffering should be endured for the potential of a reward laterβ (and not to seek any meaning in itself, which, although questionable is a manifold better reason to engage in masochism) is one that is encouraged and spread by those in power. This is an abuse of religion and an exploitation of peopleβs values done more or less solely for the purpose of keeping people perceived beneath them in check. This state of affairs is more prevalent than it appears to be at first glance and is a disgrace to the few who actually work for the welfare of people. This has been a rant. Thank you.
Limerence is a word i have been looking for for a long time.
βI would like you not to forget meβ
She whispered with her last breath,
A grave demand it was, the wish to keep for her
a page of memory, warped and stained
By timeβs tender erosion, and fill it with lavender and rose,
What matter if the world should burn and fall
to ruin faraway, a graveyard is a desecration to
the song of the earth written in the stars,
Iβd forsake heaven and the angels
for a glimpse of your hand,
eternity can scream into the abyss,
and all I ask is to have you buried beside me.
Lone stars to be my long forgotten secrets,
And the night sky depraved of her jewels to be
My heart, the calls of the woods are drowned out
by the voice of the ocean, singing with
all the sweetness of a pathway home.
Amidst the never-ending hush of the port that harbours lost souls,
The trees can only ache for the archangelβs love,
homeβs beneath the world, where the body of the
Captainβs sweetheart lies, washed away by
the clawing tide, into the veiled hearts of the
Pearls scattered upon the shore, lost forevermore
To the flowing hold of the sea and the earth.
Itβs an autumn twilight and the valley of violets has
yet to spare a rose
for the lovers lying dead by the cove.
The invisible ropes of twilight cling gently to the new dawn, the gates of heaven are barred. βExile is sweetβ, uttered the wind. βFor whom?β βEverybodyβ, she answers with a smile. βLibertyβ, she mused, βwhat is itβ¦?βHesitation. Tentative reply. βFreedom to call your spirit your own.β βAnd how is it to be obtained?β Silence. β Answer me young woman, how is one to go about purchasing liberty?β Murmurs. βI do not think you can.βWonder. βNatureβ, she suddenly said, βThe answer to be found in nature, is it not?β Uncertainty. βPerhapsβ βAre fetters to be hailed?β, she presses. Quick answer. βNoβ Laughter. βBreak them thenβ Perplexed. βYou despise your chains, yet revere them. What is it that you want child?β, She teasingly asks, wounding her slender fingers around a flyaway rose. Exclaims in despair, βI donβt know.β Laughter again. βNobody really does I supposeβ, she said, more to herself than to anybody else. βWhy do you seek freedom?β βLiberation of the mind and soul is the object of life.β βVery well,β she said, βLiberty you seek and Liberty you shall haveβ. And thus cast the ascending sun itβs first rays on the mischievous interrogator and the exiled one.
ok from what i can tell there have only been like 4 moderately widespread memes on this site in the past month or so (1. pokemon go meme 2. taylor swift copyright meme 3.Β βyou gottaβ 4. halsey lyrics on spongebob caps) which others have noted is a remarkably reduced rate of meme production for this trash site.Β
while i think the fact that the majority of tumblrβs user base has gone back to school definitely contributes to The Great Meme Depression of 2015 (TGMD 2k15), it cannot be the only explanation. if it was we would see the same Meme Stagnation every year around the same time, which has not been the case. september 2014 gave us unavoidable site-wide phenomena such as madden gifferator,Β βwhatβs better than this? guys being dudes,β the rebirth of loss.jpg, steal her look, what are we?, etc.Β
i propose that the rapid rate of meme production we grew accustomed to in 2014 and early 2015 deflated the staying power of individual memes. our hyper-awareness of memes and the fact that our metatextual analysis of said memes became a meme within itself (βmemeologyβ) conditioned us into constant vigilance in our search for βthe next meme.β i mean, for fuckβs sake, the first meme of 2014 was βwhatβs going to be the first meme of 2014?β and the last meme of 2014 was βis this the last meme of 2014?β with garbage pseudo-intellectual meta we sowed the seeds of our own destruction.
deflation of individual meme value led to an even more dramatic increase in meme production (for evidence, just look at how many memes the blogΒ memedocumentation has explained. and of course, those are only 2015 memes. the fact that memedocumentation does not document pre-2015 memes is another fucking 2015 meme) this lead to an even heavier reliance on what could be referred to as Meme Creditβwe were borrowing and resurrecting old memes like pepe and the aforementioned loss.jpg to satisfy the Meme Demand in the absence of concrete, original memes. we were destined to crash when that credit ran out and the vaults of the Meme Banks were emptied.Β
even now as i reflect on how meme hyper-vigilance and overproduction has destroyed the meme economy, i cannot help but wonderΒ βbut what will be the next meme?β
only some kind ofβ¦β¦β¦.new dealβ¦β¦β¦a New Meme Deal, if u will, can save us from this Great Meme Depression. in its absence we shall continue to suffer.
I wonder what the impulse to beauty is, - thinking of Darwin - without all the jargon around it. Why should a pale pink cloud strike the eye as profound and beautiful? There is a pigeon drinking water a few feet from where I sit and the squirrels are chasing each other over half raised walls. Today, the evening tells me of something that has been in ruins for a period long enough for it to have ceased to matter. Somewhere a bird whispers, the ruins are to rise again, not in image of what was, but as a shrine what is now. The future seems less real than the past. why?
A fond insect hovering around your shoulder. I like Kafka, in case you're wondering.
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