This goes for men AND women. Sexual assault is not just women being attacked and men deserve to be seen just as much as women do in this crime.
Be safe, the world is full of stupid people.

🚫 “No” means no.
🚫 “Stop” means no.
🚫 “I’m tired” means no.
🚫 “Not now” means no.
🚫 “I’m not sure” means no.
🚫 “I don’t know means no.
🚫 “I’m not ready” means no.

📍 Consent is not silence.
📍 Consent is not pressure.
📍 Consent is not “they didn’t say no.”
📍 Consent is not “they wanted it.”
📍 Consent is not a one-time question.
📍 Consent is not something you owe.

If it’s not a clear, honest ‘yes’, it’s not consent.

my 34
voices through people at me
break lights dance across windows in silence
leaving behind thoughts of broken glass
good morningstar ill be in last night all day
BoreDom wants to tie me up by my ankles and tie me down by my hands
her craving for my difficulty demands
first simplification
finding the wrong questions by dissecting the right answers
i cant do anything but laugh at the hopeless ignorance of it all

because its funny

XZanthia - Project 19.5 is the ethereal, experimental counterpart to my darker work—an evolving sound project rooted in ambient, noise, and esoteric electronic music. Originally begun in 1998, Project 19.5 explores liminal states, altered perception, and the space between signal and silence.
https://youtu.be/1wC91bBXRvU

Its silence whispereed into the Void. Forever

Lately, When I express my genuine thoughts and concerns, it feels like a form of punishment.

This happens both at work, in meetings where input is supposedly valued, and in my personal life. My attempts to voice a concern or a different perspective are often dismissed as pessimism, exaggeration, or even egomania. It seems I am being penalized simply for having an opinion and for caring enough to be concerned.

Increasingly, I feel that I am being passively silenced—not with a direct command, but with subtle cues and reactions that make thinking feel like a forbidden act. I am being reduced to a sounding board, a wall for others to shout at, with no expectation of a reciprocal conversation. My role is not to contribute, but to absorb.

And then, people wonder. They wonder why I am burning out, why my energy and creativity have evaporated, why my motivation has dwindled to nothing. They don't see the cumulative weight of being silenced.
I notice that the situation is gradually affecting my body. I currently only sleep with a tight chest and painful breathing, and I wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing.

Saw this on Facebook shared by Alexis Palmer one day ago:
"Somewhere, there’s a woman: 30 years old, no children. People ask her, “Still no kids?” She forces a smile. “Not yet.” Later, she cries… because she’s had miscarriages, because IVF didn’t work, because she’s tried for years, because her heart aches every time she’s asked that question.
Somewhere else, there’s a woman: 34, five children. People say, “Five? I hope you’re done!” They laugh like it’s funny. She laughs too, politely. Later, she cries… because she wanted a big family, because her Granny had 12, because she’s tired of the judgment, because people assume she’s irresponsible, because no one sees how much love and care she pours into her kids.
And then there’s another woman: 40, one child. People ask, “Only one? Didn’t you want more?” She smiles, “I’m happy with my one.” Later, she cries… because her one was a miracle, because she wanted more, because her body or life circumstances won’t allow it, because people don’t know the battles she’s already fought.
💔 These women are everywhere. They are our sisters, our neighbors, our coworkers, our friends.
Their wombs are not community property. Their choices are not public business. Their pain is not ours to poke at with casual comments and “funny” jokes.
So here’s the reminder:
👉 Whether it’s no kids, five kids, or one kid—it’s not your place to question.
👉 Respect their journey. Respect their story. Respect their silence.
Because you never know what tears are hidden behind that smile."
[Nadirah Angail]

A few words….

Dear Democrats:

I know you are confused right now. I know you are struggling to comprehend what is happening.

I am happy to explain it to you.

You see, for decades you have persecuted us for holding conventionally American conservative beliefs. You insulted us. You called us "Nazis." You forcibly silenced us in conventional media and social media. You made us scared to speak our beliefs lest we lose our jobs or our friends and families. You de-banked us. You jailed conservative meme makers for free speech. You tried to steal our children in the public schools. You made us sit at our jobs and silently listen to some HR Karen telling us we were all inherently racist, sexist and evil. You pursued our political leaders with illegitimate lawfare right out of some mid-20th Century fascist state. You badgered us at the Thanksgiving table. You made us feel unwelcome in our own country and in our own homes.

We tried turning the other cheek.

We tried reasoning with you.

We tried standing on principle.

We told you that if we finally decided to do to you what you did to us, that you would not like it.

Then your rhetoric got Charlie killed.

Guess what? We have had enough, and we finally decided to do to you what you did to us.

You need to be taught a painful lesson so the USA can be restored to a nation of freedom, justice and liberty.

Do you understand now? It's for your own good.

Love,
Conservative America

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.

PINK AND BLUE AWARENESS PROJECT
The Pink and Blue Awareness Project is a 100% volunteer run project that makes and donates bracelets to be worn in October for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

​We wear these bracelets beginning in October to raise awareness and to honor the thousands of babies lost to pregnancy and infant loss every year. One in four men and women suffer pregnancy and infant loss, often in silence. Wearing this bracelet shows your support for these families.

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdyvopfordkErbYCzVeBOkm2GzUoSl52H14iHnaYoSGtK9T9A/viewform

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