Crown your dark side 👑🖤 Gothic cosplay hats that steal the spotlight. Available on Etsy XZanthia.com

Why is traveling by air such a cluster fuck? From passport control, a screaming baby on a 20 hour flight, to 3 hours waiting my passport and visa to be checked and cleared.

It seems a shadow of misfortune follows me. I've come to expect it: a fleeting moment of light is always chased away by a familiar storm, pulling me back under with brutal force. What truly unnerves me is the silence within. The emotional echo of these disasters has faded to nothing. I am a dry well—events that should summon a flood of tears now barely register. Is this resilience, or is it erosion? My psyche, to save itself, seems to have severed the wires, leaving me feeling like an spectator in my own tragicomedy, muttering, 'This can't be real.' I observe my life as through a thick, silent pane of glass. The impact is muted, the meaning distant. I am a curious stranger to my own apathy, asking, 'What happens when you simply have nothing left to feel?' Is this emptiness making me stronger, or is it the void before the collapse? I built these walls stone by stone for protection, but now they encircle me. They keep the world's anguish out. The question is no longer about weathering the storm, but whether I am fortified within a sanctuary, or entombed within a cell of my own making.

So i get an n word pass. Im a super light skin black male.

https://mrsurvivalist.com/alternative-emergency-lighting-solutions-without-electricity/

https://simplyfullofdelight.com/free-halloween-printable-crafts-and-activities/

https://soundcloud.com/centavra-project/centavra-project-space-flightfull-version-2015

i stg if ya dont wish Yahor a happy birthday im lightin houses up! 🔫

#Eastern_Veil_Nebula #nebula #Space #Deep_Space #Space_Exploration #alien #alien_earth Eastern Veil Nebula - 1,470 light years from Earth

The Pulse That Outlives Me Since I was small, my hands have itched for the weight of something new, the warm breath of an idea still wet from birth. While others chased nights strung with music and lights, I chased the hum beneath my ribs— that low, holy vibration that says: Make. Make. Make. I am not afraid of death— only of silence, of the stillness that comes when the last word dries, when the last color fades from my palette. Some people fear missing the party. I fear missing the next perfect shiver of creation, the one that seizes my spine like lightning, the one that says: Here. This is yours. Make it real before it slips away forever. Even as a child, I knew my bones would be dust one day. But a poem— a song, a shadow on film, a brushstroke on canvas— that could outlive me. That could keep my voice whispering in the ears of strangers long after my name is forgotten. So I make. I bleed ink. I sweat pigment. I dream in shapes and sounds. Every piece is a fragment of the monument I am building to outlast my pulse. And when I am gone, let them find my works scattered like constellations— each one a flare I sent into the dark, each one still burning, still warm, still breathing my name. https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149