2
" As melancholia replaced the jarring of my invention, I sat.
Unable to breathe in the smog I had created, unable to stand on my betraying legs, unable to howl at the heavens over my sordid soul.
In this inferno, I became paroxysmic, my self-hatred, superparamount, numbness dulling the agony of such a devilish act,
An iron curtain fell upon the surrounding world, or at least what I had left of it to be owned by the laconic eclipse.
All the angels fled, disowning my prayers, the lurid world backed away, leaving me forsaken and detached,
I could no longer hear the bombings, hear them fall, my own fabrication, only the dead air that came after, the intense silence.
Cynical and paralyzed, I realized I had purloined a portion of Hell and given it to the unwilling Earth,
Punishing those I had no right to punish, judging those I had no reason to condemn, destroying cities I had never set foot in.
This is how I became Death, the destroyer of Worlds. "
― Moonshine Noire
3
" My least favorite form of street harassment is when a guy asks why I’m not smiling. It’s related to that: Women aren’t allowed to be quiet or stoic or shy—or, hell, just in a bad mood—without being criticized. Women are bitchy and frigid if we don’t seem accessible at all times, for the most part to men. We’re supposed to be perpetually friendly. Who wants to live up to that? And seriously, when was the last time you heard a quiet woman described as “deep”?
Men who are serious are just that—serious. Think laconic cowboys and Clint Eastwood-style movie heroes. Strong and silent is a desirable personality trait for men—women, not so much. Because where silence in men is seen as strength, silence in women (if not seen as bitchy) is seen as weakness—she’s shy, a wallflower. "
― Jessica Valenti , He's a Stud, She's a Slut, and 49 Other Double Standards Every Woman Should Know
4
" Carpe Diem
By Edna Stewart
Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman did it, why can't I?
The words of Horace, his laconic phrase. Does it amuse me or frighten me?
Does it rub salt in an old wound? Horace, Shakespeare, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman my loves,
we've all had a taste of the devils carpe of forbidden food.
My belly is full of mourning over life mishaps of should have's, missed pleasure, and why was I ever born?
The leaf falls from the trees from which it was born in and cascade down like a feather that tumbles and toil in the wind.
One gush! It blows away. It’s trampled, raked, burned and finally turns to ashes which fades away like the leaves of grass.
Did Horace get it right? Trust in nothing?
The shortness of Life is seventy years, Robert Frost and Whitman bared more, but Shakespeare did not.
Butterflies of Curiosities allures me more.
Man is mortal, the fruit is ripe. Seize more my darling!
Enjoy the day. "
― Edna Stewart , The Call of the Christmas Pecan Tree
