I am. I am. I am.

I try not to feel guilt over my 16 year old self not being brave enough to choose you during those frenzied, overwhelming fall months. 

Or my 18 year old self turning you down the night before we left for college, sitting in your car catching up on the years we had missed. I should have told you what was happening then, and why I said no.

Or my 20 year old self who finally allowed you in, let you see the damage, and your pain and disbelief in what I had become pushed me towards healing. 

Or my 21 year old self who left for another country and thought little of you in my experience until that day, that day that you died. 

I try not to feel guilt that I couldn’t get the money together to fly home for your funeral. That I wasn’t able to visit your home–burning the memories of our time throughout the years together into my brain. 

I try not to feel guilty that I made a deal in my head, a deal that if I reached x weight, you would no longer be dead. When I reached it you were still dead. I had failed you.

I try not to feel guilt that I moved on with my life. That the year after your death–riddled with nightmares and restriction and blades and tears and self-destruction–I began forgetting what your voice sounded like, the color of your eyes, the way you walked. And slowly, I’ve let go of the future I envisioned from the age of 16. Reality may have had to rip it from me piece by piece, but I’ve learned that you aren’t coming back. I don’t have to make the decision to live, or to join you. I can live and honor you, and remember us, even as I build a life with someone else. Even as I’ve given myself completely to another. 

Harry Potter + Aesthetics  →  Christmas 

‘Twas the night before Votemas, we’d counted the days Not a creature was content, not even Chris Hayes The ballots were stacked at the polls with such care In anticipation of voters who soon would be there Americans nestled, anxious in their beds While Fascist Hamburglar shouted on loop in their heads While I in my jammies, caught up on the news Had just settled down for an election night snooze When out in the hall, there arose such a ruckus I sprang from my bed and yelled “What the fuckus?!” Away to the peephole I flew like a dolt Then opened the door and threw off the deadbolt The streetlights that shone outside my building’s lobby Threw a surreal dullness on the sight that caught me When what, to my wandering eyes should appear But a strange motorcade, and eight volunteers! With a woman among them, eyes lively and glinting I knew in a moment; it was Hillary Clinton. More rapid than eagles, her staffers, they came And she smiled, applauded, and called them by name. “On, Huma! On, Robby! On, Joel and Cheryl! On, Amanda! Podesta! Philippe, Jake, and Jim! To the top of the polls! Ride the rise, and the fall! Then dash away! 270! Winner take all!” She ran to the chopper, to her team gave a whistle And away they all flew, like a targeted missile But I heard her exclaim, as they rode with a whir “Don’t fuck this up, America, just say #ImWithHer!”

This beautiful Swedish lady sings an ancient Viking song. Now watch how the cows respond. 

It is often argued that everything our ancestors did and said gets stored into our brains. Their experience and knowledge gets passed down from generation to generation. This may explain why we know or react to certain things without having any prior knowledge.

Kulning is an ancient herding call used in the Scandinavian region. The call is a high pitch tone that can reach long distances. The herding call sounds more like a haunting and sad melody meant to echo through mountains and alleys.