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August 21 2019


Lately I have had a minor obsession with scouring YouTube for glimpses of the magnificent Cheshire Cat from the Royal Ballet’s Alice in Wonderland. Most of the above gifs come from here but the top one comes from here. You can also see the cat going to pieces here.

There is a certain terror that goes along with saying “My life is up to me.” It is scary to realize there’s no magic, you can’t just wait around, no one can really rescue you, and you have to do something. Not knowing what you want to do with your life—or not at least having some ideas about what to do next—is a defense against that terror. It is a resistance to admitting that the possibilities are not endless. It is a way of pretending that now doesn’t matter. Being confused about choices is nothing more than hoping that maybe there is a way to get through life without taking charge.
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Language is a pleasure, after all. Bilingualism strikes me as a kind of synesthesia. Instead of seeing colors associated with letters and words, instead of hearing melodies, what I hear with language is the play and echo of the other language. The option to say it differently, and thus to live it differently. Language is not only a means of communication or description. It’s a framework in which we process existence.Yi writes: “It is hard to feel in an adopted language, yet it is impossible in my native language.” As every bilingual person and translator knows, there are certain words—a feeling, a way of being—that is absent in one language but perfectly brought to life in another. A word that, by existing, gives permission to be. What if you need that which does not exist in your language?
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Czuję się jakbym brała udział w biegu, który  z góry ma ustalonych zwycięzców. 
Wszyscy mają jakieś turbo buty z przyspieszeniem, lecą na dopingu a ja śmigam w zwykłych trampkach i ledwo dyszę.
Ich turbo buty to kasa od rodziców która napędza to ich "samodzielne" życie, a doping to wszystkie szwindle które stosują.
Oni nadal będą unosić głowę a ja nadal bedę walczyć o moje być a nie mieć - nawet będąc ostatnia w tym biegu.
— aggape 19/02/2019
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Czym jest dla Ciebie wierność małżeńska?

Wierność to nie tylko brak fizycznej zdrady. Zdrada to nie tylko seks. Zdradą może być nałóg, alkohol, praca, relacja z mamą lub najlepszym kumplem.

Wierność to danie pierwszeństwa, nadanie priorytetu współmałżonkowi. W kolejce tych wszystkich niecierpiących zwłoki spraw, która do nas stoi, dajemy małżonkowi VIP pass do nas samych – naszych emocji, intelektu, duchowości, uwagi i ciała.

Wierność to także stanięcie ramię w ramię, gdy spieramy się z rodzicami czy własnymi dziećmi. To nie porównywanie partnera do sąsiada/sąsiadki czy bohatera ulubionego serialu, to także odpuszczanie po raz pięćdziesiąty, setny i tysięczny tych samych irytujących nas przewinień.

— "Do czego tak naprawdę zobowiązuje nas przysięga małżeńska?" https://pl.aleteia.org/
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Talking of poor Tom and Maggie Tulliver brings to my mind a saying of George Eliot's in connection with this subject of melancholy. She speaks somewhere of the "sadness of a summer's evening." How wonderfully true—like everything that came from that wonderful pen—the observation is! Who has not felt the sorrowful enchantment of those lingering sunsets? The world belongs to Melancholy then, a thoughtful deep-eyed maiden who loves not the glare of day. It is not till "light thickens and the crow wings to the rocky wood" that she steals forth from her groves. Her palace is in twilight land. It is there she meets us. At her shadowy gate she takes our hand in hers and walks beside us through her mystic realm. We see no form, but seem to hear the rustling of her wings.

Even in the toiling hum-drum city her spirit comes to us. There is a somber presence in each long, dull street; and the dark river creeps ghostlike under the black arches, as if bearing some hidden secret beneath its muddy waves.

In the silent country, when the trees and hedges loom dim and blurred against the rising night, and the bat's wing flutters in our face, and the land-rail's cry sounds drearily across the fields, the spell sinks deeper still into our hearts. We seem in that hour to be standing by some unseen death-bed, and in the swaying of the elms we hear the sigh of the dying day.

— Jerome K. Jerome, "The idle thoughts of an idle fellow"
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 Tobacco has been a blessing to us idlers. 
— Jerome K. Jerome, "The idle thoughts of an idle fellow"

It is a strange thing this bed, this mimic grave, where we stretch our tired limbs and sink away so quietly into the silence and rest. "O bed, O bed, delicious bed, that heaven on earth to the weary head," as sang poor Hood, you are a kind old nurse to us fretful boys and girls. Clever and foolish, naughty and good, you take us all in your motherly lap and hush our wayward crying. The strong man full of care—the sick man full of pain—the little maiden sobbing for her faithless lover—like children we lay our aching heads on your white bosom, and you gently soothe us off to by-by.

Our trouble is sore indeed when you turn away and will not comfort us. How long the dawn seems coming when we cannot sleep! Oh! those hideous nights when we toss and turn in fever and pain, when we lie, like living men among the dead, staring out into the dark hours that drift so slowly between us and the light. And oh! those still more hideous nights when we sit by another in pain, when the low fire startles us every now and then with a falling cinder, and the tick of the clock seems a hammer beating out the life that we are watching.

— Jerome K. Jerome, "The idle thoughts of an idle fellow"
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I can enjoy feeling melancholy, and there is a good deal of satisfaction about being thoroughly miserable; but nobody likes a fit of the blues. [...]
You bury your face in your hands and think you would like to die and go to heaven. You picture to yourself your own sick-bed, with all your friends and relations standing round you weeping. You bless them all, especially the young and pretty ones. They will value you when you are gone, so you say to yourself, and learn too late what they have lost; and you bitterly contrast their presumed regard for you then with their decided want of veneration now.
These reflections make you feel a little more cheerful, but only for a brief period; for the next moment you think what a fool you must be to imagine for an instant that anybody would be sorry at anything that might happen to you. Who would care two straws (whatever precise amount of care two straws may represent) whether you are blown up, or hung up, or married, or drowned? Nobody cares for you. You never have been properly appreciated, never met with your due deserts in any one particular. You review the whole of your past life, and it is painfully apparent that you have been ill-used from your cradle.
— Jerome K. Jerome, "The idle thoughts of an idle fellow"
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