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seek freedom.

@moon-kn1ght / moon-kn1ght.tumblr.com

24, artist, storyteller masterlist
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im not 17 anymore and i should find something new to talk about but remember when ophelia said “i hope all will be well” (4.5)

pain is stored in the shakespearean woman

this isn’t an original thought by any means but when shakespeare wanted to examine the depths and nuance of human suffering it was almost always most effective in his women. you got the articulate outbursts (oh god that i were a man i would eat his heart in the marketplace) (grief fills the room up of my absent child. have i not reason, then, to be fond of grief?) (the time was, father, that you broke your word) etc etc but tbh what gets me is how often they’re the ones to sorta metatextually admit that something’s unspeakable, which is a wild thing to do in a shakespeare play. romeo monologues in the sepulcher for a long time but juliet says “i’ll be brief”/lady macbeth can’t talk about it at all she sleeptalks and kills herself offstage/isabella’s told she’s getting married and never speaks again/ hamlet talks and talks and talks bc he’s convinced he can work it all out that way as if there’s something to understand about pain besides that it hurts, but she doesn’t try to explain her songs to anybody. unhappy that i am i cannot heave my heart into my mouth etc

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Never in history has violence been initiated by the oppressed. How could they be the initiators, if they themselves are the result of violence? How could they be the sponsors of something whose objective inauguration called forth their existence as oppressed? There would be no oppressed had there been no prior situation of violence to establish their subjugation. Violence is initiated by those who oppress, who exploit, who fail to recognize others as persons—not by those who are oppressed, exploited, and unrecognized.

—Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed

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mrsmando

joel miller’s soft belly. the first time you see him shirtless, feasting your eyes upon the flesh usually pushing a little against his denim shirt, his belt buckle. he watches you take in his soft skin; littered with freckles and jagged scars. a thick, dark line of hair spreading wider around his navel, threaded with the same silver in the curls on his head. he’s not bothered about grooming; it grows wilder the further you explore, that narrow place between his hips abundant with wiry hair, joel groaning as you drag your fingers through it softly, pressing your lips to every inch of him.

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