- You will find yourself much more disappointed about an unripe pomegranate than makes sense. The seeds are white. But you eat them anyway and feel perverted.
- Smoking too many cigarettes. It’s not interesting and it shows on your skin.
- It’s less about extroversion and introversion, or even melancholia or hypomania. It’s more about periodic ebb and flow of energy, or degrees of wakefulness of soul. Sometimes you are full to the brim and need to express/empty in whatever way (write?) and other times you belong to yourself and need silent indulgence (read fiction?)
- Sometimes two people know they are like-minded and ideally would feel each other in the newest ways, but one person says something thoughtless like, I do not want to confront your sadness, and the other thinks too much to compromise or be graceful.
- I never learned grace.
- You are no longer flattered when people faux-compliment you as not like other girls—you see this as a poverty in relations and communication, or a symptom of a system that denies individual artisan skillship to such an extent than any basic deviation or self-reflection seems novel.
- Is it wrong to expect the world from ourselves and from one another when everyday we are told not to?
- You are so much more respectful of your teenage self. Long live your teenage self, actually. Your contradictions were lively and green.
- Your brother will ask you for advice about first year. Your friend will say get involved and make a lot of friends. You will say discover your academic interests now. Your other friend will say do as many drugs now as you can.
- You realize advice is only mildly fruitful. We thrive on ignoring. Things seem easily solvable and obvious in retrospect, but in the moment they never are.
- You notice the different ways people are coloured by regret.
- Your mother has built herself, regret upon regret.
- If you can reconcile the years of regret formed by your mother and passed onto you, this would mean everything. If you can stop the cycle.
- Be wary of guilt and shame foremost.
- Regret does not need to be ugly.
bisinka rabbi rahman
ilaahay ceebteena noo qari.
God hide our shame for us. and if it heals to expose then rip the wound wide open, shine the light, let the naysayers say their nay, let them open their eyes wide and gasp in dismay but let them at least act.
unfetter us. unblind us. loosen our tongues. perfume our stench. we are human in the most human sense. home to decay and decorum. we are grave robbers, all of us. God forgives us our transgressions
amin amin amin
in this space, it’s all that matters.
are you breathing? feeling? believing?
I tend to disappear, just like I tend to believe I’m (always) open.
You can’t force the fire to burn, instead learn from the dark - create light when time is ready.
the present’s beauty is so strong it’s a shame we are not appreciating enough, we would be in a different space. I observe the emptiness travelling back and forward, making me realize that all I am is what I decide to be.
ready to be guided, to be used, allowing light to enter through my crown.
this is the time, no more drama…
no more darkness.
the man you last kissed is a busy thing with feet like pigeons and a kickdrum heartbeat. “it’s irregular,” he says. another man you once loved will read this and call you untrustworthy. another will make it his story, watch his feet bump the pavement and believe. meanwhile, every body you look at is just a body. you think of how they feel when you hug them. next, the arm missing. the leg absent. you think of how it is so much to love a person and how easily that is thwarted by the absence of the body. and you are not worried about the geographic location at the time of death or separation of limb. it is like this — we all deserve to have our bodies still attached to themselves, to love, to the kickdrum pulse and aliveness of it all. we all deserve to have our bodies. and the man you last kissed is still attached to the rippling wave of his heart. he knows the rhythm. you kiss the sides of your own palms and thank sky. and the other men, and the mother, and the friends and all the bodies you don’t know are still attached to life unless they are not. and that is what hangs from your melon heart today. no need to identify, to weigh one over the other, to box politics ‘round the amputated conscience. we all deserve to have our bodies still attached to themselves, still attached to life, and when they aren’t it is always a thing evoking sadness. always.
I speak on here atleast once a month about how shitty niggas are who prescribe to Afrocentrism.
They are the wackest and to be frank their understanding of the continent is usually highkey disrespectful.
and i want no part in them.
All you have to do is listen to them talk for 2 minutes about ‘mystical Black Africa’ for anyone to get it.
There’s so much romanticism, fetishization, and EUROCENTRISM. A lot of time their understanding of the continent is stuck in the times before colonization. Like as if we’re no longer Africans after colonization, like there’s no history after the Whites left. They speak about us like we’re extinct. and even then their understanding is very limited and homogenizes us.
and then they go to the continent and get mad disappointed and upset cause it’s not their western, white eurocentric view of Africa they expected. Like it’s our fault.
I want no part in them.