napenthusiast-

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.

napenthusiast-

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.

napenthusiast-

"You want fantasy? Here’s one… There’s this species that lives on a planet a few miles above molten rock and a few miles below a vacuum that’d suck the air right out of them. They live in a brief geological period between ice ages, when giant asteroids have temporarily stopped smacking into the surface. As far as they can tell, there’s nowhere else in the universe where they could stay alive for ten seconds.
          And what do they call their fragile little slice of space and time? They call it real life. In a universe where it is known that whole galaxies can explode, they think there’s things like ‘natural justice’ and ‘destiny’. Some of them even believe in democracy…
          I’m a fantasy writer, and even I find it all a bit hard to believe. "
          — Terry Pratchett, Whose Fantasy Are You?

napenthusiast-

this message may be offensive 
- It looks like 24/7 live streaming
          reminding me
          that men are going to fuck me
          whether I like it or not,
          that there is one use for my mouth
          and it is not speaking,
          that a man is his most powerful
          when he’s got a woman by the hair;
          
          The first time a man I loved
          held me by the wrists and called me a whore,
          I did not think, “RUN.”
          I thought, “This is just like the movies,”
          I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
          
          It looks like websites and seminars
          teaching you how to fuck more bitches;
          Looks like 15-year-old boys
          bullied for being virgins;
          It looks like the man who did not flinch
          when I said “Stop,”
          and he heard, “try harder,”
          
          If you play-act at butchery long enough
          you grow used to
          the sounds of the screaming.
          
          It is just a side effect of industry;
          Everything gets cut
          into small, marketable pieces,
          you can almost forget
          they were ever real bodies.
          
          I will not practice bloody hands.
          I will not make-believe dissected women.
          My sex cannot be packaged,
          my sex is magic,
          it is part of a bigger story;
          I am whole.
          I exist when you are not fucking me,
          and I will not be cut into pieces
          anymore.