#ambigious

When it was just those original eight and how the server was less their place (especially to own) but a place they lived with.  

Innate mutual aid.  

The softer sides of anarchy often ignored. 

A childhood that bleeds. 

The nostalgia in everything done and said. 

A sky so wide, such an engulfing expanse, that it didn’t matter if there were any clouds in it. 

Welcoming in- not staving away- the darkness with controlled (but never truly really) bonfires. 

 It was your body turning into dust against an already dusty earth and you finding something so solid and certain and affirming in that. 

It was rubbing mosquito bites softly into the side of anthills.

Calluses and cuts building up simultaneously along with skin thickness.  

Bare toes poking back at the grass. 

Pond protection and ocean cleaning.

A mix of juices always running down the chin. 

Cheeks hurt from always smiling and stinging from being (consensually, playfully) pinched.

Chest spasms and stomach aches that hurt in a sort of good way like getting a bruise while playing sports.

Heart being let ache with the body.

A bit that broke every few seconds but we kept trying to carry it on.

Until it all goes numb.

It was falling asleep with the stars, hearing 

Atomic fireworks through the wind.

It was the silent companionship in loud lingering words.  

It was a “at least for now” and  “we have time.”

More than it ‘could be enough’  but rather that it already is. 

Grappling with reality with life with  other beings the fullness of it and them. 

It was self actualization self recognition self acknowledgment self respect. 

It’s knowing that it will not last forever but being glad it was there at all.  

It was knowing you need more than love is and that you will always deserve better.

Accepting you don’t love yourself, not yet,  maybe someday, and you can and will stand up for yourself anyhow.  

There was never even a chance to mourn. 

To recognize the extent of violation and bastardization when constantly facing the throes of nationalism. 

(Warning: contains spoilers for the Angry Birds series)

Yeah, this one. I dunno about y'all, but when me and my brother first played the classic game, we didn't care about the characters' genders, we never did. We were aware that the white bird lays eggs, but we did not take account of the gender. We were all just playing the game, beating the pigs, learning the birds, collecting golden eggs. And then Rovio proceeded… (Under the cut…)

But, I can't help buy imagine an intrepid robot designer working on their boyfriend with this shirt on.

“Maybe you should go to sleep?”

Here Goya, Eisenstein, and Longo offer images of undefined, or indefinite, spaces. Goya’s self-flying men may read to some like a singularly hopeful print—a dream—in an otherwise nightmarish series. Similarly ambiguous is a still from Eisenstein’s Strike: alone as a composition these hands may suggest optimism. Narratively, however, these are workers pleading for mercy during a violent police suppression. Longo’s iceberg appears beautiful, still, and expansive. But with global warming on the rise, the artist may portend its eventual demise.