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I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.

My mother once told me that trauma is like Lord of the Rings. You go through this crazy, life-altering thing that almost kills you (like say having to drop the one ring into Mount Doom), and that thing by definition cannot possibly be understood by someone who hasn’t gone through it. They can sympathize sure, but they’ll never really know, and more than likely they’ll expect you to move on from the thing fairly quickly. And they can’t be blamed, people are just like that, but that’s not how it works.

Some lucky people are like Sam. They can go straight home, get married, have a whole bunch of curly headed Hobbit babies and pick up their gardening right where they left off, content to forget the whole thing and live out their days in peace. Lots of people however, are like Frodo, and they don’t come home the same person they were when they left, and everything is more horrible and more hard then it ever was before. The old wounds sting and the ghost of the weight of the one ring still weighs heavy on their minds, and they don’t fit in at home anymore, so they get on boats go sailing away to the Undying West to look for the sort of peace that can only come from within. Frodos can’t cope, and most of us are Frodos when we start out.

But if we move past the urge to hide or lash out, my mother always told me, we can become Pippin and Merry. They never ignored what had happened to them, but they were malleable and receptive to change. They became civic leaders and great storytellers; they we able to turn all that fear and anger and grief into narratives that others could delight in and learn from, and they used the skills they had learned in battle to protect their homeland. They were fortified by what had happened to them, they wore it like armor and used it to their advantage.

It is our trauma that turns us into guardians, my mother told me, it is suffering that strengthens our skin and softens our hearts, and if we learn to live with the ghosts of what had been done to us, we just may be able to save others from the same fate.

S.T.Gibson (via sarahtaylorgibson)

mightyflower:

to quote hamlet act III scene iii line 92, “no”

einsteinrosenbridges:

a moment of silence for all the kids on the hogwarts express who wanted to buy something off the trolley but couldn’t because some 11 year old bought literally everything

Game of Thrones AU: in which Joffrey is transformed into a llama and forced to travel cross-kingdom, all whilst learning the true meaning of humility and friendship

engrprof:

runecestershire:

lyrangalia:

carry-on-my-wayward-butt:

voltisubito:

Who the frell named the Sahara Desert anyway

Sahara is just the Arabic word for “deserts”

You fucking named it the Desert Desert

way to fucking go

chai tea

I’ll take “European…

rexuality:

me: wow this is fucked up
vagina: idk it’s kinda hot :|
me: vagina no
vagina: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

lumos5001:

thetechnicolortrenchcoat:

Today is Copernicus’s 541th birthday. You may remember Copernicus as the man who said “Hey, what if the Earth went around the sun?” To which the Catholic Church replied “Hey, what if we set you on fire?” 

lyrangalia:

carry-on-my-wayward-butt:

voltisubito:

Who the fuck named the Sahara Desert anyway

Sahara is just the Arabic word for “deserts”

You fucking named it the Desert Desert

way to fucking go

chai tea

I’ll take “European Imperialists Who Never Bothered To Translate The Local Languages” for $200, Alex.

oldmanspooky:

timelordshavetwohearts:

leupagus:

sansaofhousestark:

arianne—martell:

Every time I think of the black market, I actually imagine a market, with little stalls selling illegal things like nuclear weapons and organs.

I THOUGHT I WAS ALONE

WAIT SO THAT’S NOT WHAT IT IS

"QUICK THE COPS ARE COMING!" *everyone frantically tries to collapse their trestle tables*

primalstiles:

ingberry:

biblioprincessdalian:

jethroq:

Bromeo and Dudeliet, a forbidden bromance between two bros in rival fraternities, in fair Vebrona where we lay our scene

Two frat houses, broth alike in dignity

in fair Verbrona where we lay our scene

From mancient grudge break to new dudetiny

Where civil blood makes civil mands unclean

Bromeo Bromeo, no homeo