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To be white, or straight, or male, or middle class is to be simultaneously ubiquitious and invisible. You’re everywhere you look, you’re the standard against which everyone else is measured. You’re like water, like air. People will tell you they went to see a “woman doctor” or they will say they went to see “the doctor.” People will tell you they have a “gay colleague” or they’ll tell you about a colleague. A white person will be happy to tell you about a “Black friend,” but when that same person simply mentions a “friend,” everyone will assume the person is white. Any college course that doesn’t have the word “woman” or “gay” or “minority” in its title is a course about men, heterosexuals, and white people. But we call those courses “literature,” “history” or “political science.”

This invisibility is political.


by

Michael S. Kimmel, in the introduction to the book, “Privilege: A Reader” (via thinkspeakstress)

Yes. This

(via onetownthatwontletyoudown)

(via bellecosby)

You need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select your clothes every day. This is a power you can cultivate. If you want to control things in your life so badly, work on the mind. That’s the only thing you should be trying to control.
by

(Source: minuty, via kaylantabari)

Grief is not linear. People kept telling me that once this happened or that passed, everything would be better. Some people gave me one year to grieve. They saw grief as a straight line, with a beginning, middle, and end. But it is not linear. It is disjointed. One day you are acting almost like a normal person. You maybe even manage to take a shower. Your clothes match. You think the autumn leaves look pretty, or enjoy the sound of snow crunching under your feet. Then a song, a glimpse of something, or maybe even nothing sends you back into the hole of grief. It is not one step forward, two steps back. It is a jumble. It is hours that are all right, and weeks that aren’t. Or it is good days and bad days. Or it is the weight of sadness making you look different to others and nothing helps.
by Ann Hood, Comfort; A Journey Through Grief (via theprimroseproject)

(via midnightshivers)

I’m not totally mad at you. I’m just sad. You’re all locked up in that little world of yours, and when I try knocking on the door, you just sort of look up for a second and go right back inside.
by Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

(Source: larmoyante, via coffeepeople)

cause-market:

"What my mother meant when she said, ‘you can’t eat beauty,’ was that you can’t rely on how you look to sustain. What actually sustains us, what is fundamentally beautiful is compassion, for yourself, and for those around you. That kind of beauty inflames the heart and enchants the soul." - Lupita Nyong’o

Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.
by Andrew Boyd, Daily Afflictions: The Agony of Being Connected to Everything in the Universe (via larmoyante)

p1ants:

it’s hard 2 be sad about ur body when you think of it as a landscape. you don’t criticise a mountain for being too big, or a valley for being too winding, and no one ever complains about the vastness of the sea. u are part of the earth and u are so beautiful friends.

Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
by Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via theimperfectideal)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via midnightshivers)

Of course I am not worried about intimidating men. The type of man who will be intimidated by me is exactly the type of man I have no interest in.
by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (via ichbindeinesylvia)

(via neoamericana)

(Source: supermodelgif, via baroquedown)

kelleyboomerang:

unsubstantiatedrumors:

Hero.

Most of you have probably already read this, but this is so, so important. I think it’s a damn shame that the name of the Aurora shooter or the marathon bombers is common knowledge but not the name of this brave young man.
His father said that, “He made his mother cry, but he saved hundreds of mothers from crying for their children.”
I can’t imagine such pure selflessness. I remember when I was 15, and I couldn’t have done something like this. I don’t think I’m even this selfless now.
Young heroes like Aitzaz and Malala give me hope for Pakistan, and the world. They’re the change that we need. They’re the people who you should judge Islam by, not the extremists. I know I don’t have that many followers, but please, for anyone who reads this today, spare a moment to think about this young hero and his grieving family.