What is the sound of a heart breaking?
It is the sound of someone curled up in a tiny ball crying softly in the night, the sound of the first unwanted teardrop touching your skin, it’s the sound of a telephone that doesn’t ring, the sound of regret pounding inside your brain with every heartbeat, it’s the whispers of the toy animals he gave you.
It’s the shuffling of feet walking away from you, the sound of your soul shattering into a million pieces at recognizing the word “goodbye,” it’s the soundtrack of memories torturing you, it’s the sound of feeble hands trying to push back the obstinate hands of time, it’s the sound of a cherub’s dying breath, the sound of all those years disappearing in the vortex of Cupid’s kitchen sink, it’s the unrelenting plaintive baby meows of an abandoned kitten outside an ignoring door.
It’s the sound of the rain that doesn’t ever stop, the sound of all the doors shutting and closing in your face at the same time, of raging, howling storms in the night when there’s no one there to hold you, the sound of your voice as it screams back at you, the echo of “I love yous” burning holes in you, the sound your heart makes as it tells you to lie still because nothing you will ever do will matter without love.
The sound of the waves of the polluted beach you went to as it moves from the shore and crashes inside your mind, of the sniffles that make up your pathetic “SOS-to-the-world,” the cracking of the brittle black-red petals from the sidewalk vendor roses he gave, the sound of the music he used to make going to your gut.
The sound of things in your room being thrown around and landing on the floor, the caress of kitchen knives on skin, the sound your throat makes as you swallow your saltiest tear.
It’s the sound of your own voice calling out to someone who isn’t there, of dying birds getting splattered on a city pavement, of terms of endearment used a hundred times a day struggling to crawl into a vacuum of forgetfulness, it’s the sound of your own sobs keeping you company, it’s the cold, uncaring stillness of the air you share your space with.
Destruction isn’t always as noisy as bombs exploding. Sometimes the ultimate catastrophes are as quiet as a feather falling on the floor of a Zen monastery. No one else can really hear your heart breaking except you."
so sorry for my delayed response to this email, i have been very swamped being a confused and frightened idiot who can’t do basic life tasks like respond to her emails
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
Hey, if you accidentally call a guy “daddy” in conversation, just save yourself by adding “-o” to the end and slick your hair back like a 1950’s greaser. And throw on your sick-ass leather jacket
Your thirst is hidden and now you’re the coolest dude in school
you can’t be free when your loneliness resides in this notion that what other people think of you has an impact on your self-worth. finding your family of people is something that is difficult to do but when it happens, it happens. what a human feeling to feel so heartbreakingly lonely despite all the people around you. it makes walking down streets hard, doesn’t it. we’ve all been there, have felt the boundaries of skin so tangibly. yeah it’s all we know sometimes. this year was the first year in which I began to question who is good for me and who is not, and who leaves me feeling satisfied and who makes me feel so alone, no matter how close, no matter how fucking close. keep looking. keep looking, friend. you will find it. don’t let your loneliness keep you from being unable to look people in the eye. it’s so human to feel what you’re feeling. it’s so human to admit to loneliness. get off the computer for a while. sit somewhere you’re fond of and drink a cup of something warm slowly. let it fill your mouth. wear what makes you feel the most you. smile at strangers, laugh when you slip up and drop the quarters that you’re trying to give to the guy at the coffee shop. say thank you and smile like you’ve never been more grateful for that cuppa. loneliness is the most human condition. confront it. try to understand it. meet new people. meet old people in new settings. and then say fuck it, and let yourself live.
I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming."
In Cars 2 one of the racecars mentions their mother. And then the racecar waves to his mother in the audience. One automobile birthed another automobile.
When Mater tries to convince a car that he is not a spy, he says “I’m not a spy. my specialty is towing and salvage”. The car responds by saying “Right. and mine is developing iPhone apps” before winking. Not only is this a poorly placed pop cultural reference, but they have iPhones in this world. Smartphones. Cars can hold mobile phones and use them and use their touch screen for various uses.
In Cars 2 there is a Pope. The pope is a car in a pope hat. he rides around in a Popemobile. A CAr is riding in another car. They make reference to the Popemobile. “Is the Popemobile Catholic?”, Mater says as a “Well duhhh” moment, much like our saying, “Is the Pope catholic?”. presumably this means the Popemobile is employed and must be specifically Catholic in order to be the chauffeur and carrier to the regular pope. Also, Catholicism is in this Universe. This means that there must have been an actual Jesus Christ car. Also they mention at one point that gasoline is a “Fossil fuel. As in dead dinosaurs!” so there must have been dinosaurs at one point in the Cars universe but were they actual dinosaurs or car dinosaurs how did this civilsation start how did the
So much love and power to Black mothers in America and Palestinian mothers in the West Bank and Gaza.
You all are so brave, so resilient and so beautiful. Raising children and creating homes of love in perpetual warzones. Utterly indebted, this world owes you so much more.