always learning

Coconut is very versatile.
Poor coconut.

Sexting is not bad lol

It’s fun & i like it.

I dont think fun sux.
i just feel like it sux sometimes.

C_____, have you ever wondered/felt(as) if u were a pretender, a la “imposter syndrome”?

i’m gona send you something, and then youre gonna read abt it l8r, this great video i saw of a person having a theatrical dysmorphic moment in a mirror. its amazing.

we’re always learning. C_____, do you think if we were that age now, would we hav ever sexted or traded nudes?

Once a friend posited that I’d just sprung out of a tree or the ground. i dont rule it out.

One of my favourite words is “marmalade”; though, it’s not one of my favourite food items, but sometimes I enjoy it

Was there ever a halcyon day i wonder

the Great Sisterhood

the other interesting thing abt taking dance classes is that I get to experience the blessing of being around girls and women. it’s almost like a second home – no, more like a refuge. from the patriarchal world.

From sprightly elementary school girls to gentle women in their winter years, each room is occupied and warmly colored with feminine energy, the magnitude of which I can’t remember the last time I experienced.

I’ve only seen one man-seeming person here. it was not a technique class like many of the others. Other than that one person, the establishment seems to be primarily women-owned and operated.

With feelings of refuge also come feelings of belonging, even if by a stretch:

even people of different ethnic, historical, cultural (etc) backgrounds from the same ruined or war-torn regions, if they are refugees, will often apprehend their connexion like a fine golden thread through piles of ash, and bond on this basis alone. when the world outside this secret one becomes hostile and\or uninhabitable, the parameters of our ey3s is modified to seek belonging, protection, safety and stability.

I feel part of the Great Sisterhood, yet cannot ascertain my place. Perhaps it is merely a matter of having to live in between worlds, and learning not to resent this invisible abode. In the world of Men, there is only a crumbling statue, an image or effigy where a son was expected to be. And I can never return to that vicinity.

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i think my mother still fancies me a writer – or a poet ~ what’s the difference ~ yes, I know; one is lauded for making sense, the other of passing repute, a relic of a bygone time, I know, for it is I.

The curtain which i thought was blue,
adorned with shape of butterflies,
in daylight i see that its fibers are green
       yet it hangs with the same attitude.

A happy dream shall I dare ask to see?
That road to Realms of subtle gates again,
       will it so deign to wait for soul effete,
       inexorably changed by Time’s sure strain?