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been on my mind latley while taking evening walks

i used to chase rainbows walk a few blocks maybe then turn around cause i always knew it was fruitless now i do the same for sunsets  try to stay up for sunrises i never succeeded but i always look back i keep swinging and dreaming of the sun rise i never saw all i have is the orange horizon that never finishes its downfall i close my eyes and listen to the cicadas i take a deep breath and ask god to change  but i open my eyes and the sun isn't set hours after it was supposed to my legs are tired but i wish to swing my head hurts but i can breath the car lights blind me and i hope they don't think of me  the bright fluorescent lights highlight my growing roots not blonde but not entirely brown dull and indecisive  so the next day, I walked further, I tried to see the sun for a better angle since I once again missed the rise I seem to have walked quite too far, so the sky was blank, covered by trees and high skylines so I go back and turn around feeling the cars go by me almost hitting me each time, and I immediately regret that I didn't walk even further to see what was beyond the bend, maybe the trees would clear away and i’d finally see the set from a perfect angle I hope one day I'd find myself back to a tall mountain Ridge where I could see the fall and theoretically the rise all by myself and nothing else in mind but i didnt take advantage when i did have that perfect spot

@taffy

Mar 30, 2025

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What Resembles the Grave but Isn’t

Falling into a hole, again and again, each time saying, “This is not my grave. Get out of this hole.” Climbing out, only to stumble into another, muttering, “This too is not my grave. Get out.” Another hole, and then another, holes within holes—cascading, endless. Falling, rising, falling again. Each time insisting, “This is not my grave. Get out of the hole.” Sometimes you’re pushed into the hole, defiant as you climb out, shouting, “You cannot push me into this. It is not my grave.” Other times, you fall unprovoked, tumbling into spaces already carved—rigid, ideological, impersonal voids. Holes whose walls were long dug by others. And sometimes, you fall into holes with others. Together, hands and arms forming ladders, you rise, proclaiming, “This is not our mass grave. Get out.” There are times you willingly fall, choosing the hole because it seems easier than resisting. Only once inside, you realize—this isn’t the grave either. So, you climb, slow and deliberate, discovering that even after this hole, there’s yet another. And another. Some holes linger, holding you captive for days, weeks, years. They may not be graves, but escaping them feels insurmountable. Still, you claw your way out, knowing the horizon holds an endless field of holes. Occasionally, you stop to survey them, yearning for a final, dignified place to rest—a hole of purpose, of completion. Yet even then, you wonder about others who have fallen, who never climbed out. Sometimes, you think, perhaps they found peace in staying. You move forward, torn between avoiding the holes and contemplating their inevitability. Sometimes, you fall with resignation; other times, with a stubborn resolve. But each time, you rise, saying, “Look at the strength, the spirit, with which I rise from what resembles the grave but isn’t.”

@marshall

Feb 24, 2025

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A poem I wrote

As my answer to the two latest posts by @KLORIZZA_XPLAINZ_ALL (I) Unsay the pieties. No mother, this. No altar for your filial tears. This Earth: furnace heart, blind alchemist. Suns to sediment. Silence to screams. (Value: your brief, fevered invention.) Did the Permian scream? Did Chicxulub weep? Energy. Eruption. Our equation: more complex. Same indifferent sum. (II) Not pathogen. But Earth's OWN mind, ignited. A fever-dream of magma, now self-aware. Cities: new crystals. Webs: planetary nerve, raw, sparking. This is not un-nature. This is nature, waking up inside one of its compounds. Geode cracked: not amethyst. A thinking void. We are nature run its course. (III) Then, the refrain, stage-whispered: “Oh, the children! Won't somebody PLEASE think of the children!” Ancient code. Gene-song. Echo-lust. Not for Earth, this future-fret. For your own face, reflected. The planet absorbs suns. And dynasties. Our care? For our continuance. This too, this fierce, specific love— we are nature run its course. (IV) Temples to the devoured. Anthems fueled by the very fire that consumed. Hypocrisy? Or the engine hum of consciousness wrestling instinct? The jaguar: clean kill. No manifesto. Our shame: a novel organ, grown too large. Too late. (V) The truth: a detonation. We are nature run its course. Not its gardeners. Not its curse. The thinking wildfire. The accelerated continental plate. Universe: no ethics. Only transformation. Our "destruction"— its metabolic rate. This experiment in sentience. Through us. We are nature run its course. (VI) Mother Nature's son, daughter, and other— you, charting ephemeral borders under manufactured constellations. Your kin: earthquake. Glacier. Virus. The storm, not the meadow. The jellyfish, brainless, endures. Five apocalypses. No future tense. Our gift, our agony: to know. And knowing, burn. (VII) Earth will take our steel. Our stories. Grind them to silence. Not justice. Chemistry. Time. The question isn't "save." The planet saves itself. Or doesn't. The question is: a conscious geological force— what does it do? The mountain, knowing it is mountain, and will erode? No solace from the void. Only the arena. Our reign: brief. Incandescent. Terrifying. Through our eyes, the void, for one breath, sees. The next act? Ours. (For we are, and can be nothing else but, nature run its course.)

@mehdi

May 19, 2025

Top Recs from @sophiafone

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A Cup of tea scientifically makes us feel less lonely

Something cool I learnt recently is the theory of social thermoregulation. It’s a concept that suggests warmth, whether physical or social, can influence our feelings of connection and emotional well-being. The theory, in essence, proposes that our brains are wired to perceive warmth as a form of social comfort. When we feel physically warm—like when we’re holding a hot cup of tea—our brains associate that sensation with social closeness and feelings of security, even if we’re by ourselves. Next time you’re feeling a bit lonely or disconnected, consider reaching for a cup of tea—not just for the taste or the comfort it offers, but for the warmth that could scientifically be helping your brain feel less isolated.

@sophiafone

Jan 14, 2025

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Conversations after sex

I think I’m obsessed with the way people talk after sex. The rawness of it, the unraveling. Not sex itself—no, sex is almost always… not what you think it’ll be. It’s not what movies promised or what your own mind built it up to be. It’s hands and limbs and sometimes good, sometimes okay, sometimes you’re just waiting for it to end. But, the moments after. It’s messy, but not in the way sex is messy. It’s messy in the way people are messy, when their guard drops and the words spill out in no particular order. The room smells like skin and warmth and whatever happened before, and somehow, this feels more intimate than the act itself. They’ll say something random, like how their mom used to burn toast every morning, or they’ll ask you about a scar you forgot you even had. They’ll let a sentence fall out that feels so tender, so unguarded, and you just know they didn’t mean to share it—but now it’s yours. And maybe you say something back, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re just lying there wondering how you ended up in this moment with this person you thought you knew but didn’t, not really.

@sophiafone

Jan 28, 2025

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book covers

I’m totally obsessed with book covers, and this one is my current favorite

@sophiafone

Jan 14, 2025