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     According to Aristophanes, there were originally three sexes - the children of the moon who were half-male and half-female, the children of the sun who were fully male, and the children of the earth, who were fully female. Everyone had four legs, four arms and two heads, and spent their days in blissful contentment.

      Zeus became jealous of the humans’ joy so he decided to split them all in two. Aristophanes called this punishment the origin of love because ever since, the children of the earth, moon and sun have been searching the globe in a desperate bid to find their other halves. 

     Aristophanes’ story though is incomplete because there was also a fourth sex - the children of the dirt. Unlike the other three sexes, the children of the dirt consisted of just one half. Some were male and some were female and each had just two arms, two legs and one head. 

     The children of the dirt found the children of the earth, moon and sun to be completely insufferable. Whenever they saw a two-headed creature walking by, talking to itself in baby-talk voices, it made them want to vomit. They hated going to parties and when there was no way to get out of one, they sat in the corner, too bitter and depressed to talk to anybody. The children of the dirt were so miserable that they invented wine and art to dull their pain. It helped a little, but not really. When Zeus went on his rampage he decided to leave the children of the dirt alone. They’re already [bleep], he explained.

The quote that changed my life.

Salvador Dalí diary up for sale in auction of surrealist artifacts

I love that they picked a page where he’s tallying up expenses. (Real artists constantly worry about money. Oscar Wilde: “When bankers get together for dinner, they discuss Art. When artists get together for dinner, they discuss Money.”)

when i’m lonenly, which is translated to most of the time, i make them; green, yellow, pink, blue, white, purple.

and, believe me, it’s kind of a relief to make them. not only for the colors and cute shape, but also for the fact that the time i spend makin them i am entertained and don’t have to think about my loneliness anymore.

i learnt how to make them like two months ago, by the way. and i have made over 300. 

This is for everyone. Guys, girls, both, neither, and more.

When you’re upset, make a star. When you’re stressed, make a star. I make them in school when the teacher yells at our class for being lazy or dumb. I make them at home when I’m in my room, wishing someone would notice my feelings and give me comfort. I’ve always made them with whatever I had around, and write a number on each and every one because its therapeutic. I can see how far I’ve come and how many times I haven’t given up.

Right now I’m at around four-hundred and seventy, and it really puts everything into a perspective.

Thats four hundred and seventy times that I could’ve given up. I’ve gotten pretty close on some of them - scarily close, but every one of those stars is a reminder to keep pushing forward, because I wake up every day and on my dresser is a box full of stars, and when I’m happy I think of how far I’ve come.

I think this idea should be passed around as much as possible. Its calming and distracting from and panic I feel. It gives me something methodical to do: Fold here. Fold there. Crease that line. There you go, Create. Produce. Make something solid and focus on it. Make another if you need to. Write a number. Fill up the jar, box, drawer.

And when you’re breaking and feel everything crashing down, you can look at your stars and think:

Things might be harder for you than others, but that does not mean you’re weaker 💛💛

Behind the scenes at the MET

The museum’s underground halls are all hung with signs reading “Yield to Art in Transit.” Art moves physically within this warren so it can do a different kind of moving — of souls and minds — when it is in the galleries. And really, we should all yield to art in transit.

“…Engines on the Other Railway aren’t safe now. Their controllers are cruel. They don’t like engines any more. They put them on cold damp sidings, and then,” Percy nearly sobbed, “they…they c-c-cut them up.” -”The Bluebells of England.”  Stepney the Bluebell Engine.  Rev. Awdry, Wilbert.  London: Egmont Publishing, 1963.

“Smudger,” said Duke. “Was a show-off. He rode roughly and often came off the rails. I warned him to be careful, but he took no notice.” “Listen, Dukie” he snared. “Who worries about a few spills?” “We do here! I said, but Smudger just laughed.” “Hahaha!” “Until one day, Manager said he was going to make him useful at last. Smudger stopped laughing then!” “W-w-why? What did he do?!” “He turned him into a generator. He’s still there behind our shed. He’ll never move again.”

Okay, so we see Railway Management doing all this shit, right, but supposedly it’s so much worse in the Other Railways? I mean, sure, you might get turned into a generator or bricked into a tunnel for not doing as you’re told, but at least you’re not cut up and sold for parts, right? It’s not so bad on the island of Sodor, right?

Or maybe that’s just what Railway Management wants the engines to think.

Maybe the island of Sodor is the real totalitarian regime, and the engine citizens (slaves) are fed propaganda, illustrated in hellish grays and sulfuric yellows, about how bad it is everywhere else, at all the Other Railways.

You are lucky to be an engine of Sodor.

Railway Management cares about you.

Trust Railway Management.

Stay on Your Track.