What world is this? What kingdom? What shores of what world?
i think it’s funny that people are constantly saying “first world problems”…bashfully excusing themselves, as if to dismiss their own emotions as invalid compared to the next person. because of course these problems, the problems stemming from our privileged lives pale in comparison to the problems of real-ass starvation, war, extreme physical suffering.
well, of course. of course. things could always be harder - everything’s relative. and it’s never good to lose perspective. it helps. it does.
and OF COURSE the problems of those in the first world are first world problems. if you’re HAVING them, chances are….that’s where you are.
starving people have starving people problems, dying people have dying people problems, overweight people have overweight people problems, white people have white people problems, black people have black people problems, rich people have rich people problems, gay people have gay people problems, straight people have straight people problems….are we detecting a pattern?
everybody’s got them, period.
you can’t measure human suffering with a yardstick. those who try to do it end up vindictive, even when they’re trying to be helpful.
because the minute you start measuring suffering, you invalidate somebody’s suffering…and that just never works. that’s where the whole shit starts getting ugly.
anyone who says “my pain is bigger than your pain” is speaking from fear.
anyone who says “my feelings are more valid than your feelings” isn’t speaking from empathy.
the song don’t lie: everybody hurts. everybody suffers, everybody feels pain. and everybody feels it for a different reason on a different day in a different way. and it’s all real….there’s no pain that isn’t valid, there’s no pain that isn’t “real” because somebody has it worse off. pain is pain. all you can do is feel it, accept it, move on and know that everybody else on this spinning ball of dirt is in the same boat, and we all need to acknowledge each other’s pain, no matter what the package, and no matter how big or small that package appears.
when we do this, that’s what keeps us compassionate brothers and sisters on earth.
will i occasionally still use the “first world problems” joke the next time i find myself complaining that the coffee in this bistro is over-roasted?
eh, probably.
why?
because it’s a funny fucking joke.
..I think everyone has forgotten what ‘awkward’ means
Murder of the hair. It’s dyed.
I have a boy and a kitty in my bed. Life is good.
Mmm.
And I have to speculate that god himself did make us into corresponding shapes, like puzzle pieces from the clay. True, it may seem like a stretch, but its thoughts like this that catch my troubled head when you’re away, and I am missing you to death.
There was a bookcase in her grandmothers house, the most beautiful bookcase. Big and grand and with carving all around the edges. It sat in a forgotten upstairs room which felt like it was full of magic. It was always full of spidery sunlight from a little window, which has a little hole in it which the wind would sometimes whistle through.
Elizabeth hadn’t been to her Grandmothers house for a long time. Going back felt like venturing into the unknown. As she went up the little rocky road she found herself overswept with nostalgia; memories of being a young girl, forced into pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes.
Going back to this place felt like a collision of past and present, nothing had changed. The house was a little older and the garden a little more overgrown, but everything still felt exactly the same.
Now Elizabeth found herself at the door. She could hear the wind shisteling from the upstairs window of the little room with the big bookcase. Now Elizabeth found herself wondering how she ended up here. Her grandmother was gone now, and her mother not long after. Liz had hardly thought of this place for years, but all of a sudden had found herself being drawn to it.
Elizabeth pushed the door open, disturbing a carpet of dust behind the door. The air glittered with dust and gentle sunlight, the room was full of beautiful objects and frames and figures, but Liz knew where she was heading. Past the kitchen and up the narrow wooden stairs where every step was followed by a creak. The whistling from the little window in the little room started to get closer. More stairs. More creaks.
And then she was in front of the little door. The little lopsided door into the little room with the little window, and the big old bookcase. Liz pushed the door, again disturbing a carpet of dust, which filled the air and swirled in impossible shapes and patterns in the sunlight and just the slightest wind from the little hole in the little window.
Liz looked to the wall where the bookcase lived, it was gone. But there was a perfect rectangle on the ground where it had once stood, no faded floorboards, no dust.
