Stream of Consciousness
What Rage Feels Like
"Majority Fools" What's good for the goose Is good for the gander Wrap my neck in a noose From all that damn slander What is good for one Is not good for all Different lives are spun Before we even start to crawl I can talk and talk Until I'm blue in the face But your guidelines are chalk That you refuse to erase Singular in mind Solitary in view Keep on being confined By everything you thought you knew A line in the sand So easy to cross But your high demands Mean endless lives are lost But we have this system That's confounding to me It leaves so many victims So much for "land of the free" But this is what happens When you go by majority rules Peoples lives are blackened Because the majority are fools
By Hannah Alexander2 months ago in Humans
What is vigil planning?
As a Death Doula I talk about vigil plans often, so what are they? Let’s talk. A vigil plan is simply your wishes for what the space around you feels like when you’re dying. They can be as simple or detailed as you want. They can (and should) change over time as you grow, learn and evolve. They can-and most definitely should-be talked about, not just with loved ones but with everyone. Hell, I talk about mine with strangers at the grocery store.
By Crystal Potter2 months ago in Humans
Speaking to Time Instead of the Room
Much of modern communication is oriented toward immediacy. Writing is framed as something meant to be consumed quickly, reacted to instantly, and replaced just as fast by whatever comes next. Under this model, the value of a piece is measured almost entirely by its initial reception. If it does not land immediately, it is treated as a failure. This assumption narrows the purpose of writing and misunderstands how meaning actually travels through time.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast2 months ago in Humans
(from my dream imagination)
My work blends experience, dreams, intuition, memory, and imagination. These stories, reflections, and creative pieces come from my personal point of view and artistic lens. They may read as truth, metaphor, fairy tale, or grounded reality sometimes all at once. Any depictions of adult themes, including alcohol or cannabis use, appear only as part of character experience and storytelling. Nothing here is intended as instruction, advice, or recommendation. This is my voice, my vision, and my way of seeing the world.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 months ago in Humans
What Floats When No One Carries You
Some pain never shows itself. It doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t bruise the skin. It simply lives inside you, quietly—like something floating beneath the surface of water. Present, steady, unseen. I think I am something like that. Floating. Not because I’m light—but because sinking would mean stopping. The house was silent when I woke up that morning. Not peaceful silence. The kind that feels unfinished. My mother’s room door was closed. My father had already left for work. On the table sat a cup of tea, cold and untouched, probably left there from the night before. I had to go to school. That part of the day always felt heavier than it should have. My foot still hurt. The doctor had called it a “minor injury,” the kind that heals on its own. People love the word minor. It makes pain sound optional. Like something you can simply ignore if you try hard enough. But pain doesn’t work that way when you have to walk. “Just take the bus,” they said. Buses cost money. And money isn’t always something you have when you need it. So I walked. The air was sharp with cold. Each step sent a reminder up my leg that I wasn’t okay, even if I looked like I was. I tried not to limp. People notice weakness more than they notice pain. Cars passed. People passed. Faces buried in phones, conversations, laughter. No one asked if I was alright. And that’s the rule of the world, I think—you’re invisible until you fall. Halfway there, I stopped near a small frozen pond. The surface was quiet, almost glass-like. Beneath it, something moved slowly. A jellyfish drifted just below the ice, its soft colors muted by the water. It wasn’t swimming. It wasn’t sinking. It was simply… floating. I stood there longer than I meant to. Watching it felt strangely familiar. It moved because the water moved it. No direction of its own. No resistance. No struggle anyone could see. I thought, Maybe this is what surviving looks like when no one carries you. School was loud, but I felt distant from it. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Thinking hurt. My body and mind seemed to argue with each other all day. The teacher asked a question I knew the answer to. I didn’t raise my hand. Silence had become easier than speaking. When no one truly listens, words feel like wasted effort. During lunch, everyone gathered in groups. I sat near the window, staring out toward the pond again, the way light reflected off its surface. I remembered when I was younger—when my mother used to walk me to school, holding my hand tightly like she was afraid the world might take me away. Back then, the road felt shorter. Back then, pain didn’t follow me everywhere. Back then, I didn’t feel like I had to prove I deserved to exist. Time changes everything. Except the expectations. On the way home, snow began to fall. My foot had gone numb, but I kept walking. Stopping felt dangerous. Like if I paused too long, I might not start again. The sky was heavy and gray. Each breath came out like a small cloud. I thought about how strange it was that pain could feel so lonely even when you’re surrounded by people. When I reached home, the silence greeted me again. I dropped my bag and sat on the floor. That’s when the tears came—not suddenly, not dramatically. Just quietly. Like they had been waiting all day for permission. I didn’t try to stop them. People think strength is loud. They think it looks like confidence, or bravery, or winning. But sometimes strength is just continuing. Continuing to walk. Continuing to show up. Continuing to float. No one sees how heavy that can be. The next morning, my foot still hurt. But something inside me had shifted. I realized I wasn’t weak for struggling. I wasn’t broken because things were hard. I had been surviving without support, without rest, without being asked the simplest question: Are you okay? And I was still here. That mattered. Later that day, someone finally noticed. “You look tired,” they said. Not accusing. Just observant. For once, I didn’t smile automatically. “I am,” I said. The world didn’t collapse. They didn’t walk away. They just nodded—and listened. It wasn’t a solution. It didn’t fix my pain or my situation. But it reminded me of something important: Being seen doesn’t require being loud. It requires being honest—with the right people. I still smile sometimes. But now, I let it come naturally. I let it leave when it needs to. I don’t force strength anymore. I don’t pretend pain doesn’t exist just to make others comfortable. I’m learning that floating isn’t failure. Sometimes, floating is survival. And maybe that’s enough—for now.
By Inayat khan2 months ago in Humans
Are you a weed or a pretty plant ?
one and a half years ago my now ex-boyfriend and I had a really intersting conversation. It was a conversation after or First hege fight and at that moment I felt completely lost .So in the middle of this fight and trying to figure out where we misunderstood each other he said : “ look you are like this weed “ while pointing at it . “ It doesn’t matter how the ground is. You still decide to grow there and you are ambitious to make things work. I am like the plant over there . My ground is good ans it doesn’t really matter what I do- some things are more easy for me even if I don‘t have a plan or a goal“.
By _ lilinana2 months ago in Humans
The Workload You Build Yourself
Most adults describe overwhelm as something that arrives from outside. They talk about it as if it settles onto the body without warning. Overwhelm is most often self-induced. It grows out of choices that protect comfort instead of finishing the work. It forms from distractions that feel harmless but produce weight later. People often see the feeling as pressure from the job when it is really pressure from tasks left undone.
By Dr. Mozelle Martin2 months ago in Humans
