Why would you ever need to be useful to anyone other than yourself?
Asked by an entrymate after I told her my prevailing life philosophy. It’s difficult to ascribe significance to my life if I’m not making myself “useful” to others in some way. Even though I acknowledge the unhealthiness of basing self-worth on external factors, I find it difficult to give value to my life if I’m not being productive or integral (in some way) to an outside source.
So it perplexes me how people think I should value my life simply because I have it. Maybe it’s a testament to how easy my circumstances are—I’ve never had to acknowledge the mere fact of existence as a reason to be satisfied, while others struggle to survive on a consistent basis. I do register and understand this privilege on a mental level, but the idea of “not being integral” has still always given me a stupid amount of emotional strain. I honestly believe that if the resources expended on me were to outweigh my self-perceived usefulness to society, the world would be better off if I died and stopped consuming materials. (In some ways, this is a good thing: it keeps me eager to do and accomplish new things, consistently trying to assign some importance to my temporary lifespan.)
This has also led me to wonder: do I not value the lives of others whose perceived “usefulness to society” outweighs “the resources expended on them”? I suppose that by my logic, I shouldn’t, but I still do simply because an intrinsic part of me believes that nobody doesn’t deserve to exist. So why do I refuse to hold myself to these same standards? The answer keeps on eluding me.
White Sci Fi Authors: We can’t have POC in here it needs to be accurate and realistic
White Sci Fi Authors: So should the rainbow dragons come in this chapter or the next one?
Years and years ago, there was a production of The Tempest, out of doors, at an Oxford college on a lawn, which was the stage, and the lawn went back towards the lake in the grounds of the college, and the play began in natural light. But as it developed, and as it became time for Ariel to say his farewell to the world of The Tempest, the evening had started to close in and there was some artificial lighting coming on. And as Ariel uttered his last speech, he turned and he ran across the grass, and he got to the edge of the lake and he just kept running across the top of the water — the producer having thoughtfully provided a kind of walkway an inch beneath the water. And you could see and you could hear the plish, plash as he ran away from you across the top of the lake, until the gloom enveloped him and he disappeared from your view.
And as he did so, from the further shore, a firework rocket was ignited, and it went whoosh into the air, and high up there it burst into lots of sparks, and all the sparks went out, and he had gone.
When you look up the stage directions, it says, ‘Exit Ariel.’Tom Stoppard, University of Pennsylvania, 1996 (via flameintobeing)
Slowly replacing the negative thoughts with colors and beautiful things.
Luna and Cho /talking/ about nargles during class.
I can’t write dialogues lmaoI really want this (friend)ship to exist.
are we not even going to talk about how unexplored the ginny/tom relationship is
they wrote to each other for an entire year, tom riddle was closer to ginny than anyone else had ever been without reservation and she in turn was the object of his almost religious focus and…
talking to my ladyfriend the other day and
ugh it’s so sad that we feel proud of our white guys friends for recognizing and acting in accordance with Basic Human Decency when it comes to social justice issues
like we instinctively go “omg you’re such a decent white guy why aren’t more white guys like you”
though i’ve only thought this about a grand total of like, two people
but social awareness and respect should be the norm instead of the exception and we shouldn’t have to feel a surge of relief and happiness when we talk to someone who Gets It y’know
I dare not compete with the strains of your heart,
all its syllables seething with rich incandescence:
my sonnets lie landlocked in preadolescence;
I bear little passion to augment my art.
I write not of love, but of you nonetheless:
of the libraries anchoring roots in your chest
to weave sea-weathered songs into stanzas you’ve strung
out of dialects breathing last words on your tongue,
and I write of your verses. Your words smell of sighs
and the streams of tidewater that leak from her eyes,
pooling deep in your gut, scalding salt in your blood:
when you touch pen to paper, the ink tastes of love.
So I marvel, dear poet; you’ve lived so unsung
though you breathe as a muse and musician in one.
You have said that my verse gives you air to fly true,
but you’ve given me color. My words are for you.