We Barely Move , Only Breathy Laughs Between Us As We Lay Together

the muslim men wear long white pants and tunics in airy, breathable fabric. their headwear is red or black or white to symbolise their culture. Jordanian, Saudi Arabian. The muslim Women wear long black robes, loose and shapeless. their faces are covered, sometimes, also veiled in black fabric. Theories as to this sea of black and white we see in muslim countries:

-Black fabric is breathable without any chance of being see through. the men, of course, don’t have to worry about see through clothing, because no one is trying to see through to their skin.

-Black is not a color. it isn’t noticeable, it cannot catch eyes. A Woman in pink, white, blue is a treat for her husband.

-the colours are a symbol. The men wear white because they are pure, made in the image of God. the Women wear black , a burdensome color in the hot sun, as penance for being the original sin.

But my theory is a little different . When I see those Women, shapeless, lacking identity, dragging this hot fabric around in the beaming desert sun, I see people in mourning. Women, who don’t even realise it, are forced to live in the wake of their own potential, had they not been forced into this binary. Gender, in this society, is divided into two:the sin, and the one compelled by sin. And, even if it’s for a brief moment, before the reality of it comes back to me, I see Women mourning themselves.

nothing I hate more than men “bravely destroying western propaganda”. I’ve met many afghan women in america on asylum. it’s all true. every fucking word.

Dude showed fuck-all and thinks that somehow proves that "the West" is lying about women in Afghanistan being oppressed. As if these men would ever tell the truth regarding a woman's plight.

This is lazy propaganda and anyone who isn't completely delusional can see right through it.

(Channel name is Arab)

2 April, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

soo cute btw love this lookout

Taken in 2000 about a year into our relationship.

Taken in 2024 (last weekend). Didn’t quite get the pose or positioning right, but hey, we’re older and our memory ain’t what it used to be!

i’m sitting next to you as you drive forty down that dimly lit street, gravel making the car rumble in the soft way that replaces the radio.

I’m watching my hands now, wringing them and watching them shake, little big movements that are more present than not. I don’t know what it’s like to have still hands, anymore.

You don’t know, i think, you don’t know about them. The pills. the way i look out the window briefly, like it hurts to look. like how it feels when you graze a cavity with ur tongue. it hurts in that good way.

I’m scared to look at you and i’m scared to look out the window and catch the moonlight on my skin for the same reason

I’m scared they’ll make me want to stay. I’m scared to come to terms with leaving you, leaving the moon, the dusty road, the gravel, the stars, the stop signs covered in scratches and graffiti covered overpass.

I can’t miss you too much. it has to be quick. I want it to be easy, and god that’s what i’m trying to do. Make it easy.

So i don’t look left across the console to meet ur deep brown eyes, almost black under the moonlight, and i don’t look right to see the little animals scurrying off into the trees at the sight of ur headlights and the sound of your engine.

I look down at my sweaty small hands instead, and i think about how many i should take. Ten, twelve, five, 8.

It’s a guessing game. It’s five minutes until we reach my home.

and then you speak.

“ won’t you say something?” you grumble. “why do you get like this?”

I’m nervous, but i stay static.

“would you even look at me? Look at me, damn it.”

And at that order, the twinge of anger you fail to hide, I move, looking right towards the window of the very important passenger seat . and i glance up. It’s a beautiful night. i want to say. the moon is so pale, it almost looks blue.

“So... how do you torture a woman? [.] You can pry her body away from her mind, or you can pry her mind away from her body [...] To pry her body away from her mind, you need to physically humiliate her. Of course, rape is the most traditional method, but it's not the only one [...] You can ridicule her body […]you can make her strap her breasts in. You can make her embarrassed about her periods. You can make her frightened of puberty, frightened of sex, frightened of aging, frightened of eating. You can terrorize her with her own body, and then she will torture herself.” (Gage 21)

Does anyone have the quote that says something like ‘if you want to torture a woman you have to get her to divide her body and mind/get her to hate her body’?????

I can’t remember it, and I can’t find my picture of it (though I may not have the screenshot anymore)

just a few more minutes please?

in your arms, before it gets complicated?

just a couple more touches, here and there?

a few more movie dates?

just one more chance to straddle you in warm lake water and kiss you until i get shy of watching eyes

just a few more minutes walking around a shopping mall, hesitating to hold your hand,

just one more hike, one more perfect view

just another t shirt that smells like you?

or maybe another long drive in your car

or just a few more phone calls

with that deep tired voice

before it gets old

before you get mean

before it fades

just a few more moments

and then i’ll walk away

#(a poem for when it’s only a matter of time)

those “ desserts” that are just greek yogurt whey protein powder and liquid aspartame 💔 they have to mix for twenty minutes cause there’s more powder than liquid 💔🥀

the size 2 food influencer who is trying to sell you on “tofu chocolate mousse” is suffering mentally and she wants you to suffer with her. the mousse tastes like tofu because it’s made of tofu. it doesn’t taste like chocolate mousse because it’s not chocolate mousse. not everything you eat has to be high in protein and low in carbs and low in fat. i know this because i also suffered mentally once. in my suffering i made the “tofu chocolate mousse” and i ate the “tofu chocolate mousse” and you have to trust me.

the first time i read this i peaked

Women are told our whole lives that men are cold and mean to us because they don't know how to show emotions, but that lie is shattered the moment you watch a sports match. The way male athletes cry, hug and comfort one another, etc. when their teams either lose or win indicates that they are capable of feeling and displaying emotions that are neither anger or lust. They choose to not be affectionate to us, they choose to not love and support us. It's a choice.

Just wanted to tell y'all how grateful I am that radblr exists. Bright spot of my day to be able to interact with women of similar outlooks and theoretical backgrounds in this cesspool of a culture