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Humans are just animals, albeit more evolved in the issues that concern them, like capitalism and consumerism, among many others, but innately animals. The very primal factor or the driving force of both animal and human life is the libido, or the life force. An animal in its wilderness is viewed as a creature whose basic motivation is survival, morals and altruism doesnât apply to them. Therefore, whenever humans do any activity that is morally degrading, âanimalâ is used as a derogatory term. But the truth is, animals always remain true to nature and do not try their very best to defy their primal instincts. There is coercion in wilderness, but there is a much stronger force of altruism as well. Given that both humans and animals stem from the very same life force, why does humanity work so hard to suppress its nature, disguising it under the illusion of progress? Cars and bikes, shopping malls, and pollution replace the rawness of existence, while nature becomes a mere spectacleâconsumed rather than lived? Why is it that the so-called evolved human fails to show true altruism, blurring the line between pretense and realityâbecoming an "animal" in the very way they use the term, a beast that terrorizes itself and those around it?
By the age of twelve I had flesh bursting from my chest and thighs and hips, at the end it was nothing but ashes. Yet, the two evolving genders were ever so curious about the sudden growth of these pieces of flesh. My body became a spectacle, a subject of scrutiny and silent judgment, as though its changes granted others a newfound entitlement. I was subdued by the society to take up less space, to become less of me, wearing dresses and going to play was not an option any more, lest something terrible happened to me. These were just theories for me until I realised among those observers was my uncle, a man who had coddled and cosseted me as an infant. A man who was deemed as a harness of safety and reliability. He was not curious in the way children whisper about changes they do not yet understand; he was curious in the way predators lurk in the shadows, except he was lurking in his persona, waiting for an opportune moment. And one day, he took his chance, for a brief yet painstakingly long moment, he exposed his primal nature as he slipped from the persona he had masked himself underneath.
It was a brief, suffocating and irreversible moment. A hand that did not belong, a gaze that stripped away my sense of safety, a violation that did not leave bruises but carved itself into my bones. I did not scream. I did not fight. I did not know how to. It wasnât until my aunt called for me from the kitchen that I realised what was happening, I banged my head against the wall in an attempt to release myself from his clutches. I was twelve when I realised the atrocities humans were capable of. I was twelve when I saw the real beastânot an animal, but a man who had chosen to suppress his humanity in favor of his most primal urges.
For years, I carried the weight of that experience in silence. Guilt, shame and confusion had build wall around me. I truly learnt how to subdue myself, how to become as little of me as possible, how to take as little space as possible. I became way too aware of touch, proximity and the lingering eyes. I had this desperate urge to become invisible and evaporate. Yet, despite it all, the force of survival within me refused to let me dissolve into nothingness
HELLO MY LOVELY FELLOW TUMBLRMATES, BUT LIKE PEOPLE WHO HAVE SEEN INSIDE OUT (WHICH IS LIKE ALMOST EVERYONE CUZ IT IS A CRIME TO NOT SEE IT), DO YOU GUYS REALIZE AFTER 9 LONG GRUESOME YEARS IT IS FINALLY FINALLY COMING OUT đđđ and I am for the sake of my life not able to contain my excitement....it is such a wonderful piece of art, especially the ending left me shattered yet again it healed my soul, the co-existence of joy and sadness and the realisation that as a child the emotions, the pure, the wholesome emotions you felt are rather rare as and when you grow up...you experience more...you understand more and you try to fit in as a means of survival, you try to fit in the mold and become complex or rather intricate.... I don't know where I am heading but yes, that's that and I just saw the new trailer and it is so damn amazing đ. How can you not possibly love it, the representation of bottled up emotions and all...I shall collect my thoughts and make a better post about it but yes here is my rant
YOU GUYS, YOU BETTER WATCH THAT FILM. STAY SAFE. STAY HAPPY â¨
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I so want to write a poem on this; this single line is so fucking beautiful. It contains within itself so many poems. This reminds me of the line from Saturn by Sleeping at Last: I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen.
Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.Â
Carl Jung, âMemories, Dreams, Reflectionsâ
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.Â
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âPeople have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustnât forget it. You become responsible forever for what youâve tamed. Youâre responsible for your rose.â
-  Antoine de Saint-ExupÊry, The Little Prince
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.
I think a lot about how we as a culture have turned âforeverâ into the only acceptable definition of success.
Like⌠if you open a coffee shop and run it for a while and it makes you happy but then stuff gets too expensive and stressful and you want to do something else so you close it, itâs a âfailedâ business. If you write a book or two, then decide that you donât actually want to keep doing that, youâre a âfailedâ writer. If you marry someone, and that marriage is good for a while, and then stops working and you get divorced, itâs a âfailedâ marriage.
The only acceptable âwin conditionâ is âyou keep doing that thing foreverâ. A friendship that lasts for a few years but then its time is done and you move on is considered less valuable or not a ârealâ friendship. A hobby that you do for a while and then are done with is a âphaseâ - or, alternatively, a âpityâ that you donât do that thing any more. A fandom is âdyingâ because people have had a lot of fun with it but are now moving on to other things.
I just think that something can be good, and also end, and that thing was still good. And itâs okay to be sad that it ended, too. But the idea that anything that ends is automatically less than this hypothetical eternal state of success⌠I donât think thatâs doing us any good at all.
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Nowadays, i immediately follow "I love Snape, he's my favourite character," with "I love how he bullies kids, I'm so jealous." Just to kind of establish right away that i not only do i not care, but i encourage and envy his modus operandi
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