psycocat

Over the weekend, as I checked my messages, I had a small thought: I don’t really care that white people are lazy. Oh, don’t deny it. We’re lazy AF. Put us to work and we’ll find any number of ways to procrastinate it, prolong it, or find someone else to do it for us. Take this video for example. Go on. Watch it. The rest of this thread will be here when you get back. https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRKbFYQ1/ Look, I don't even think it's a bad thing that white men don’t work as hard as these Latino workers. That's fine. It’s painfully obvious that those men don’t want to be there. Let the migrant have the job. https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRKbw4Gn/ John Adams said it pretty well. He studies the hard thing so his children can study something less intense and his grandchildren could study art. I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval

I’m here again where a cold loneliness of Memories from a distant past do bloom Rememb’ring a love which with lust and pain Left and was silenced in the heart of a tomb Upon the ruins of my shattered hope A glam’rous hand lit a candle on high And a dead man stitched eyes of vivid flame From the heart of the grave into my eyes I moan “oh, it’s him” and he looks my way My lovelorn heart fills with panic and swells A laugh danced across his voluptuous lips His oh so lustful lips, who know me well My heart quaked in the depth of depression Oh woe is me, I was mad, so eager Oh woe is me, I killed him, destroyed him Oh why couldn’t I have been a stranger He gave his heart to me without complaint When did he succumb to my untamed love To then with an ego which closed my eyes Have his heart stepped on by his ladylove I gave to him not but anguish and pain Buried them deep under his hollow nave Oh woe is me, oh God, oh God. Oh, I Planted him in the embrace of the grave In the silence, a

Birds sing. A prop plane flies overhead. A breeze ruffles what's left of my hair. The distant roar of traffic, sirens, & my kids laughing w/ friends tickle my ears. Intrusive thoughts say, "you should die." Gases bubble through my intestines and eject themselves with a pop. The faint perfume of dinner lingers on my hands and tickles my nose. The bouquet of untold Florida flowers peaks in and out. Sprinklers scent the air with water. "But why smell those when you can die." Feet, long trapped in boots, whine at their continued confinement. Heartbeats drum through my temples. An itch torments my eyelid and ear. Fatigue teases behind my eyes. "It may be better to die." The sun shines behind clouds painted with broad brushstrokes across an azure sky. A bird beats itself through the air. My kids tumble with their friends across green grass and a midnight trampoline. "But why are you still here?" Breath goes in, pauses, and slips out. Eyelids close. The thrumming heart shakes my core, rattles my chest. Holy Spirit drops a heavy hand upon my shoulder. But still the voice remains. "Really you should go." Every day this voice will linger. Every breath it seeks for purchase. Every second I look away is a second I'm in danger. I love my life, my family, these sights and sounds, scents and feelings. Yet that voice is never far encouraging me to give it all away. My thoughts My feelings My family My wants My desires Give them up Succumb to the void It's my constant companion and greatest foe. No amount of praying has made it leave or lightened its weight. It tells me I'm unworthy and while I know it lies, it often stings. And no preacher's voice has convinced it, or me, otherwise. This is what it means to me to live with passive suicidal ideation.

There's more to your eternal worth Than outward shows of piety Despite what you see that others do It's in the heart that God does see

زود است و می‌خواهم بخوابم در کارم و می‌خواهم بخوابم بام را نگه کنم و می‌خوابم که‌ در بسترم دارم می‌خوابم

Oh hearts rejoice! The fast has gone and Eid is here! The wine is ready, and you must have it, my dear Let the time of piety sellers pass away The people’s time of joy and cleverness is here What blame is there in he who drinks a little wine? What err in this foolishness? What dangers appear? The drunkard who does not harvest duplicity Is better than the pious braggart with holy veneer I’m not a crafty knave, an opponent of change A scholar of secrets or mysterious seer Let’s do our godly duty and wrong not a soul And let us adhere to the truth and no lie revere If it so happens one of us drinks some wine, the Wine is the blood of the vine, not your blood, my dear It is not a fault which will cause a fracture. And The fault? What of it? Where is he without fault here? Hafez, let “because and why” pass away and drink With His Law in hand, should you because and why fear?

ای ایران از تاریخ و اشعار سرشاره از گیاه و حیوان و دیدگاه سرشاره از لذایذ و شاهکار و زیبایی پره از عذاب و ستم و گریه سرشاره Ai Irān az tārikh ou ash'ār sarshāreh Az giāh ou heivān ou didgāh sarshāreh Az lazāyez ou shāhkār ou zibāyi poreh Az 'ezāb ou setam ou gerieh sarshāreh Oh, Iran rich with history and poems With plants and animals and vistas With delicacies and masterpieces and beauties With suffering and cruelty and tears

The horse has died but we hit it again "It died you say? Huh. Hey, hand me that cane." Just stop. Move on. The horse collapsed and died. But we kick and kick, our efforts in vain.

It strikes with means, motive, and opportunity It hits when you're down though you may not cry Creeps up when you're alone like a coward, afraid It comes with a gun and asks why shouldn't you die?