RemindMeNow

Blue Baptism | 1-06-2024 | 3:04
          	
          	there’s a void that doesn't quite fit into the screen but you keep trying to press it into shape. your emotions are emojis, your thoughts condensed to 280 characters. you are an avatar of yourself, more connected and more isolated than ever.
          	you wake up, you check your phone. you eat, you check your phone. you lie in bed at night, and check your phone. the blue light bathes your face in the dark, casting shadows where your smile used to be.  your thumb, the only part of you alive. faces blur. are they real? are You?
          	dopamine hits fade faster now. refresh, refresh, refresh. you curate, you crop, you filter your existence. you are static, stuck, a bug in amber. 
          	how many sunsets have you missed while searching for the perfect filter? less flesh, more data. less soul, more algorithm. a tragedy in binary, 0 or 1? that wasn't an insta poll. reduced to 6 inches, and you say size does matter. the world is burning, or maybe it's just another sunset. hard to tell the difference through the screen. 
          	the feed scrolls on, infinite yet empty. you are here, you are nowhere, you are everywhere. human, inhuman, post-human. fingers poised over glass, waiting for the next notification. For what? You have forgotten. 
          	
          	ping ping ping - your heart flutters.

wilted_quill

@sitaareq It's always the damn phones
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preciouspearl20

@RemindMeNow And tbe fluttering feeling dies faster than neon lights.
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sitaareq

ok mom, im abandoning my device.
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ayendrla

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ presepohne's thread ;; 2024

ayendrla

Because expressing the kindness to yourself that you deserve often reminds you of the kindness you didn't get. Trauma isn't just the sadness that comes from being beaten, or neglected, or insulted. . . . Trauma is also mourning the childhood you could have had. The childhood other kids around you had. . . . That sadness—the sadness of loss—is a different flavor than the sadness of reckoning. The sadness of reckoning feels visceral and angry and tinged with violence. It feels healable, somehow, with revenge or justice. But the sadness of a lost childhood feels like yearning, impossible desire. It feels like a hollow, insatiable hunger.
            
            Stephanie Foo, What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma
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ayendrla

The words “image,” “appearance,” and “outwardly” are crucial to understanding the morality of the evil. While they seem to lack any motivation to be good, they intensely desire to appear good. Their “goodness” is on a level of pretense. It is, in effect, a lie. This is why they are the “people of the lie.” Actually, the lie is designed not so much to deceive others as to deceive themselves. They cannot or will not tolerate the pain of self-reproach. The decorum with which they lead their lives is maintained as a mirror in which they can see themselves reflected righteously. Yet the self-deceit would be unnecessary if the evil had no sense of right and wrong. We lie only when we are attempting to cover up something we know to be illicit. Some rudimentary form of conscience must precede the act of lying. There is no need to hide unless we first feel that something needs to be hidden. We come now to a sort of paradox. I have said that evil people feel themselves to be perfect. At the same time, however, I think they have an unacknowledged sense of their own evil nature. Indeed, it is this very sense from which they are frantically trying to flee. The essential component of evil is not the absence of a sense of sin or imperfection but the unwillingness to tolerate that sense. At one and the same time, the evil are aware of their evil and desperately trying to avoid the awareness. Rather than blissfully lacking a sense of morality, like the psychopath, they are continually engaged in sweeping the evidence of their evil under the rug of their own consciousness. The problem is not a defect of conscience but the effort to deny the conscience its due. We become evil by attempting to hide from ourselves. The wickedness of the evil is not committed directly, but indirectly as a part of this cover-up process. Evil originates not in the absence of guilt but in the effort to escape it.
            
            Meeting the Shadow
            
            Connie Zweig
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ayendrla

this message may be offensive
01. ah my favourite place to loiter my thoughts around because no fucker would open this account and go about their day. fucking hell yeah.
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peachygrants

I bragged to a friend about u (showed him atlas was different)

sitaareq

@peachygrants nothing to brag about right there except for how unhinged i can be
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sitaareq

@tarbooja_ they're like meera, scarlet and visha.
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peachygrants

@sitaareq brag about yourself too
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RemindMeNow

Blue Baptism | 1-06-2024 | 3:04
          
          there’s a void that doesn't quite fit into the screen but you keep trying to press it into shape. your emotions are emojis, your thoughts condensed to 280 characters. you are an avatar of yourself, more connected and more isolated than ever.
          you wake up, you check your phone. you eat, you check your phone. you lie in bed at night, and check your phone. the blue light bathes your face in the dark, casting shadows where your smile used to be.  your thumb, the only part of you alive. faces blur. are they real? are You?
          dopamine hits fade faster now. refresh, refresh, refresh. you curate, you crop, you filter your existence. you are static, stuck, a bug in amber. 
          how many sunsets have you missed while searching for the perfect filter? less flesh, more data. less soul, more algorithm. a tragedy in binary, 0 or 1? that wasn't an insta poll. reduced to 6 inches, and you say size does matter. the world is burning, or maybe it's just another sunset. hard to tell the difference through the screen. 
          the feed scrolls on, infinite yet empty. you are here, you are nowhere, you are everywhere. human, inhuman, post-human. fingers poised over glass, waiting for the next notification. For what? You have forgotten. 
          
          ping ping ping - your heart flutters.

wilted_quill

@sitaareq It's always the damn phones
Reply

preciouspearl20

@RemindMeNow And tbe fluttering feeling dies faster than neon lights.
Reply

sitaareq

ok mom, im abandoning my device.
Reply

RemindMeNow

You're the rat, the cheese, and the scientist | 27-06-24 | 00:06 
          
          Dawn breaks. I pry open my eyes, another day to chase something shiny. Whisper to myself: I'm not like them, not racing rats in a maze. But my feet hit the floor, and I'm running. Always running. What choice do you and I have? Survive or perish. The city wakes, a monster hungry for dreams. I feed it mine, bite by bite. Chasing cars like a feral dog, barking at taillights that fade. What if I catch one? What then? My mouth full of metal and rubber, victory tasting like ash. But we don't  stop just there, not yet. The next desire already clawing at my throat. Rest is for the dead. So I run. Chase. Want. Repeat. Until my lungs give out or the sun burns away. What am I chasing? Life, maybe. Or its neon shadow. Ask me tomorrow. I'll have a new answer, same desperate eyes.

preciouspearl20

@RemindMeNow Then tell me today, what's your new answer?
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