when god closes a door you reach your little paws under it and go mrrwwaaaooow mmreeaaow
At 40, Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married and had no children, walked through the park in Berlin when he met a girl who was crying because she had lost her favourite doll. She and Kafka searched for the doll unsuccessfully. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would come back to look for her.
The next day, when they had not yet found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll saying “please don’t cry. I took a trip to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures.”
Thus began a story which continued until the end of Kafka’s life.
During their meetings, Kafka read the letters of the doll carefully written with adventures and conversations that the girl found adorable.
Finally, Kafka brought back the doll (he bought one) that had returned. “It doesn’t look like my doll at all,“ said the girl.
Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote: “my travels have changed me.” the little girl hugged the new doll and brought her happy home.
A year later Kafka died. Many years later, the now-adult girl found a letter inside the doll. In the tiny letter signed by Kafka it was written:
“Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way.”
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To myself, raised in an environment that glorified and romanticized restriction and suffering:
There is no victory in skipping dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, or morning coffee, or dessert.
There is no victory in refusing heaters and air conditioners and fans and heated blankets.
There is no victory in denying yourself sleep, or showers, or movement, or water, or a comfortable bed, or taking the elevator vs. the stairs.
There is no victory in refusing pain meds and heating pads and ice packs and medical help.
There is no victory in punishing yourself needlessly, in telling yourself that this pain you feel is because you are bad to the core and deserve it.
There is no victory in choking back your laughter and your tears, to keep an imagined equilibrium of safety that is really just a dry, cracked, empty, endless emotional desert.
You are here. You are in this body, and this body is yours. You deserve good things. You are alive, and that is messy and loud, and messy and loud are okay.
It’s okay to live abundantly. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to indulge. This paralysis of self-punishment, self-restriction, self-loathing is not healthy or good for you.
when i have a crush i dont kick my feet or twirl my hair instead i am in my kitchen at 3am pacing in circles with my hands clasped behind my back like a middle-aged divorced detective haunted by a cold case he just cant crack
TW: Ableism
I don't know which late/self-diagnosed autistic needs to hear this, but your autism pre-diagnosis wasn't "mild" and you didn't go "under the radar"
You were ignored - whether it be intentionally or unintentionally. There was a time or multiple when you tried to advocate for yourself - when you were visibly struggling, and you were ignored, ostracized and expected to "rise above" it.
You are disabled. You've been disabled. Unfortunately you just did not have the support system to help you.
"Do you know the new tiktok trend where--" No.
i've experienced popping and cracking in all of the above so i wanna know how normal this is
I have a funny feeling I need to widen the upper area some more but I like this so far
a comic about fix-it fanfics