Creative

Mean Something

Whoever you are,

Whatever you do,

Whoever you do,

Mean something.

You are not random.

You are born for something only you can do,

A task only you can perform.

You are a word in the vastness of literature.

So mean something.

Mean something, that you debunk your life circumstances

Fly so far from the tree you forget what fruit you were supposed to be

Mean something, that you break the so-called limits of your body,

Shaming the real slut who wants everybody to be like her: society.

Mean something, that you feel primordial freedom even in pursuit of truth and beauty

Crash into things. A single strike can spark a wildfire.

Mean something, that your existence affirms the goodness of the earth,

Love people. Use things. Never the other way around.

You are the stray cat that car almost hit,

The girl crying for her drowned mother after the surge,

The boy swearing revenge for his father after the siege,

The tree falling for a shopping mall.

Life is not a hit-and-run,

Or a tidal wave,

Or a battlefield,

Or a business venture.

Life is you. So mean something.

Turn off the TV.

You’ve already seen that before.

You already know how it ends.

Get off the internet.

Nothing good ever gets away,

Even that vine you’ll laugh at for a few moments and forget just as quickly

Value your tribe. One day you will have a most brilliant idea, only no one will read it amongst your tacky unsolicited inspirational God quotes. With hashtags.

Most of all, value yourself. Guard you against all the bullshit this world suggests to you, including but not limited to Lang Leav and Thought Catalog. Know yourself so much, you don’t need a WikiHow to live a decent life.

Mean something that the world is not the same before and after you run through, that at least one person would think of you and wonder how they would have fared without, that by living with meaning you have caused a wildfire. Mean something, you little arsonist you.

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Inspiration

Falling Into Dimension Z by Robert Kincaid

(an excerpt from Robert James Waller’s The Bridges of Madison County)

There are old winds I still do not understand, though I have been riding, forever it seems, along the curl of their spines. I move in dimension Z; the world goes by somewhere else in another slice of things, parallel to me. As if, hands in my pockets and bending a little forward, I see it through a department store window, looking inward.

In Dimension Z, there are strange moments. Coming along a long, rainy, New Mexico curve west of Magdalena, the highway turns to a footpath and the path to an animal trail. A pass of my wiper blades, and the trail becomes a forest place where nothing has ever gone. Again the wiper blades and again, something further back. Great ice this time. I am moving through short grass, in furs, with matted hair and spear, thin and as hard as the ice itself, all muscle and implacable cunning. Past the ice further back along the measure of things, deep salt water in which I swim, gilled and scaled. I cannot see more than that, except, beyond plankton is the digit zero.

Euclid was not always right. He assumed parallelness, in constancy, right to the end of things, but a non-Euclidean way of being is also possible, where the lines come together, far out there. A vanishing point. The illusion of convergence.

Yet I know it’s more than illusion. Sometimes a coming together is possible, a spilling of one reality into another. A kind of soft enlacing. Not prim intersections loomed in a world of precision, no sound of the shuttle. Just… well…breathing. Yes, that’s the sound of it, maybe the feel of it too. Breathing.

And I move slowly over this other reality, and beside it and underneath and around it, always with strength, always with power, yet always with a giving of myself to it. And the other senses this, coming forward with its own power, giving itself to me, in turn.

Somewhere, inside of the breathing, music sounds, and the curious spiral dance begins then, with a meter all its own that tempers the ice-man with the spear and matted hair. All slowly–rolling and turning in adagio, in adagio always– ice-man falls… from Dimension Z…and into her.

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Personal

I live my life in growing orbits
which move out over the things of the world.
Perhaps I can never achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt.

I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song.

Rainer Maria Rilke, I live my life in growing orbits (translated by Robert Bly)

I’m sure I’ve posted this before but it’s too beautiful not to be shared again.

(via growing-orbits)

Quote

rookiemag:

Take a Risk

What’s stopping you is probably you.

Words by Anna F., collage by Beth.

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Image

“Be Safe” graffiti art by Final Girl

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Personal

“You are somebody!

You are not damaged goods
You are not spoilt
You are not a reject
You are somebody!
They use their mouths to break your spirit
Like he invaded your womanhood and broke your body
I use words to build your soul
And bring life to you again…
You matter, you count
You are important, you make a difference
You are here in the today
Despite of the wrongs and pains of yesterday
You can be more than what you are today
You will reach a higher mountain than ever before
You are a survivor, a fighter, a conqueror
Stand on the mountain of pain and stigma in triumph
You are somebody!
Just think it, see it, dream it, become it
You are somebody!
Define her to you.”

– by Janah Ncube

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