The World Of Stairs And Their Shapes ...

Brasil has officially elected Bolsonaro as the next president.

I don’t know what to say to express what I’m feeling.

I’m writing because I genuinely want to kill myself.

But I don’t want to die. All I want is to be safe.

I don’t want to live knowing that all my neighbors will have guns.

I don’t want to live knowing that my father could go to jail one day or have his career ruined because he is against torture.

Against persecution.

Against execution.

Against laws being made for no reason other than justify cruelty.

I don’t want to live knowing that my uncle has chosen guns and money over my safety and sanity.

I don’t want to live knowing that my aunt, despite knowing why and how I was sexually abused, says that I don’t know what I’m talking about when I say that his ideas and speech terrify me.

I don’t want to live knowing that so many people, too many people I thought I knew are nothing of what they seemed to be.

I have always been proud of my country, our issues and all.

I have always loved how welcoming, warm and kind we are.

I have always admire our ability to remain kind, bright, solar, regardless of our ugly past.

But now, knowing that the majority, the vast majority of our people support such things… I’m not proud.

I’m not proud of my country anymore.

I’m not proud of our people anymore.

Being Brazilian doesn’t mean what I thought it did.

I thought it was about celebrating life, helping those in need, believing in love and compassion.

Wrong.

I grew up singing our songs, reading our stories, eating our foods, stuff made of little bits of every other country in the world.

We are made of variety. Diversity. Layers. Stories from oposite sides of the globe that happened to come together and become one in this land.

We are just as diverse as what we find in our forests.

The forests they don’t give a single fuck about.

But they don’t give a fuck about anything, do they?

No.

Just money, guns and property.

Their own asses and selfish goals.

Yes, I’m angry. I am painfully angry. But I am sick. I don’t deal well with my emotions. They are too much.

They don’t give a shit about that either. So what if I am bipolar and can’t afford my meds when the new government is up and shit goes wrong (for us)? Well, maybe I’ll hurt myself. Maybe I’ll steal something. Maybe I’ll hurt someone. Maybe I’ll do drugs. Who knows what I’ll do when my brain decide it’s time to fuck me up?

Whatever. Hurting myself? Let her die if she has no money for a hospital stay. Stealing something? Jail, immediately. Hurt someone? Jail, immediately. Doing drugs? Jail, immediately. But I’m sick, sir, at least take me to a place where they’ll make sure I’m sane. (Sick? 30 years in jail so it won’t happen again!)

No, really, tell me what am I supposed to do. I’m angry and crying is not enough. And I’m scared.

I’m terrified.

I am a female, homosexual, witchcraft practitioner, with a handful of mental illnesses, including an SMI. I am almost a perfect target.

The perfect targets have black skin.

And I hope they’re safe.

I hope they, too, get to vent tonight, somehow.

I’m thinking of the homeless man with his puppy (her name is Lara) living near the hospital where I go to treatment on Tuesdays.

What does the future hold for them?

What if I go to the hospital this week and they’re not there?

Maybe I’ll find them in the news.

People are getting killed.

I never thought I would live to see the beginning of an era like the one my parents lived for 20 years. I never thought I would see my father on the verge of tears because one of his childhood best friends, who was taught by a teacher whose father was dragged out of the classroom he was teaching, tortured and killed during the dictatorship, voted for a man who believes more people should have died back then.

I want to die because graves are the only safe places that come to my mind.

But I’m saying alive.

I have something to fight for. People like me. Those who are just as scared as I am. More scared than I am. I’ll live for them, for love, and for the taste of proving wrong all the imbeciles who think they can point a gun to our heads to make us change.

And if I get killed, all I ask is for someone to play Famous Last Words to my funeral.

I am not afraid to keep on living

I am not afraid to walk this world alone

Friendly reminder that you should

Write that fic

Draw your OC

Redesign that blorbo

Plan that comic how you want

Create the content you want to see

Be cringe

Be free

The only thing that matters is you having fun! Not what others think!

sketch sketchh

(click for better quality)

PSA to New Tumblr Users

DON'T CENSOR YOUR TAGS. DON'T.

Write out 'Suicide' Write out 'Rape' Write out 'Abuse' & 'Assault' & 'Gore'

If you don't use the real words in your tags? People won't be able to filter those out and stay SAFE.

You need to tag properly to keep everyone safe.

Don't water down warnings just because social media has trained you to water them down.

Find Us Alive Timeline up to episodes 00-31

Full Size Here

Fifthism imagery is just very interesting…

Fifthist Hub by faminepulse: http://scp-wiki.net/fifthist-hub

hoffman's car

weird underground bunker / house in las vegas, nevada.

not exactly a liminal space but i thought it was cool.