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āTo exist in this body is war,ā she whispered, her voice so soft it nearly escaped me, as if she recoiled from the weight of the words that had slipped past her lips.
āEvery day, I am dissected as if I am the anomaly in this world, not the systems they built upon the backs of those who came before,ā she chuckled, as if this truth ā this burden ā had been her constant companion.
āLooking at her then, perhaps truly seeing her for the first time, the enormity of it struck me. Somewhere between then and now, lifeās weariness had etched itself onto her face. Lines I had once interpreted as joy and laughter now seemed more like scars, healed over with a stubborn refusal to be erased, a silent declaration: āThis will not break me.ā And for a fleeting moment, I had believed it. But now, beneath the willow, where sunlight once filtered through the leaves in a warm embrace, a sense of her depleted fight hung heavy in the air. The light itself felt different now, thin and frail, mirroring how all the blood she had shed seemed to have cost her more than if she had never bled at allā¦.
After the Fire, We Remain,Ā page 30Ā ā P.N.G
May 8, 2025
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I knew this love of mine was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleeps, but the kind that floats, listless and unmoored, like a feather dislodged in a storm. It drifted upward, aimless, circling, caught in the breath of things that once felt steady: laughter, warmth, the scent of jasmine from my grandmotherās porch before the war of illness took her away. Joyful people are rarely light. The ones who care the most often carry the heaviest sorrow, but they smile, because someone has to.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
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Why would you do that to me?
I keep trying to locate the moment everything broke. Like itās a pin on a map I can circle in red. But there is no clear shatterpoint, no clean fracture, no dramatic climax. Just pressure. Gradual. Relentless. Until one day, I couldnāt carry it anymore and I donāt even remember deciding to drop it.
Maybe the line was never drawn. Maybe I was never taught I could draw one.
Is that my fault? His? Does fault even matter? Was it an accident? Was it cruelty? Was it just the consequence of being small in a world that teaches people to take what they want?
I donāt know. And Iām learning to live with not knowing.
But lately, strangely, I think Iām healing. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But quietly, like the way snow melts: slow and almost imperceptible, until suddenly thereās grass again.
Iām letting go of the obsessions that gnawed at me. I have energy again, like I finally remembered how to move.
Iām picking up pieces of old joy, half-buried but still intact. Iām remembering the things I loved. The things that loved me back.
And maybe, most importantly, Iām forgetting the things that never really mattered at all.
I keep trying to locate the moment everything broke. Like itās a pin on a map I can circle in red. But there is no clear shatterpoint, no clean fracture, no dramatic climax. Just pressure. Gradual. Relentless. Until one day, I couldnāt carry it anymore and I donāt even remember deciding to drop it.
Maybe the line was never drawn. Maybe I was never taught I could draw one.
Is that my fault? His? Does fault even matter? Was it an accident? Was it cruelty? Was it just the consequence of being small in a world that teaches people to take what they want?
I donāt know. And Iām learning to live with not knowing.
But lately, strangely, I think Iām healing. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But quietly, like the way snow melts: slow and almost imperceptible, until suddenly thereās grass again.
Iām letting go of the obsessions that gnawed at me. I have energy again, like I finally remembered how to move.
Iām picking up pieces of old joy, half-buried but still intact. Iām remembering the things I loved. The things that loved me back.
And maybe, most importantly, Iām forgetting the things that never really mattered at all.
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I read it in first grade and it accelerated the development of a profound sense of consciousness and independent thinking and fortified my existing love for animals/nature/the environment. I was already an overly existential child and it helped me learn to focus on beauty and joy in the face of death and suffering!
ā
The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow's edge. They were falling from all the trees. One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip. "It isn't the way it used to be," said one leaf to the other. "No," the other leaf answered. "So many of us have fallen off tonight we're almost the only ones left on our branch." "You never know who's going to go next," said the first leaf. "Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who's going to go next." "The sun seldom shines now," sighed the second leaf, "and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again." "Can it be true," said the first leaf, "can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?" "It is really true," whispered the second leaf. "We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers." "It makes me very sad," added the first leaf. They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, "Why must we fall? ..." The second leaf asked, "What happens to us when we have fallen?" "We sink down. ..." "What is under us?" The first leaf answered, "I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows." The second leaf asked, "Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?" The first leaf answered, "Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it." They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, "Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling." "That's nothing," the second leaf answered, "I tremble at the least thing now. I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to." "Let's not talk any more about such things," said the first leaf. The other replied, "No, we'll let be. Butāwhat else shall we talk about?" She was silent, but went on after a little while. "Which of us will go first?" "There's still plenty of time to worry about that," the other leaf assured her. "Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid things..." "Now the nights are dreadful," the second leaf complained, "and there is no end to them." "We shouldn't complain," said the first leaf gently. "We've outlived many, many others." "Have I changed much?" asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly. "Not in the least," the first leaf assured her. "You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly. But it's different in your case." "You're fooling me," the second leaf said. "No, really," the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, "believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me." "Thanks," whispered the second leaf, quite touched. "I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me. I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are." "Hush," said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more. Then they were both silent. Hours passed. A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops. "Ah, now," said the second leaf, "I..." Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.Ā Winter had come.
ā
The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow's edge. They were falling from all the trees. One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip. "It isn't the way it used to be," said one leaf to the other. "No," the other leaf answered. "So many of us have fallen off tonight we're almost the only ones left on our branch." "You never know who's going to go next," said the first leaf. "Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who's going to go next." "The sun seldom shines now," sighed the second leaf, "and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again." "Can it be true," said the first leaf, "can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?" "It is really true," whispered the second leaf. "We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers." "It makes me very sad," added the first leaf. They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, "Why must we fall? ..." The second leaf asked, "What happens to us when we have fallen?" "We sink down. ..." "What is under us?" The first leaf answered, "I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows." The second leaf asked, "Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?" The first leaf answered, "Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it." They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, "Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling." "That's nothing," the second leaf answered, "I tremble at the least thing now. I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to." "Let's not talk any more about such things," said the first leaf. The other replied, "No, we'll let be. Butāwhat else shall we talk about?" She was silent, but went on after a little while. "Which of us will go first?" "There's still plenty of time to worry about that," the other leaf assured her. "Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid things..." "Now the nights are dreadful," the second leaf complained, "and there is no end to them." "We shouldn't complain," said the first leaf gently. "We've outlived many, many others." "Have I changed much?" asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly. "Not in the least," the first leaf assured her. "You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly. But it's different in your case." "You're fooling me," the second leaf said. "No, really," the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, "believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me." "Thanks," whispered the second leaf, quite touched. "I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me. I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are." "Hush," said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more. Then they were both silent. Hours passed. A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops. "Ah, now," said the second leaf, "I..." Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.Ā Winter had come.
Sep 8, 2024
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ādoes anyone know where i can find art house/avant-garde films that have good production design or like set dressing, kinda like David lynch
May 28, 2025