My sis and I encapsulated. Jay’s the bottom pic, of course.

(Source: ruinedchildhood)

But let’s get something straight: a community pushing back against a murderous police force that is terrorizing them is not a “riot”. It’s an uprising. It’s a rebellion. It’s a community saying We can’t take this anymore. We won’t take it. It’s people who have been dehumanized to the point of rightful rage. And it happens all over the world. Uprisings and rebellions are necessary and inevitable, locally and globally. This is not to say that actual riots don’t happen. White folks riot at sporting events, for example. Riots happen. But people rising up in righteous anger and rage in the face of oppression should not be dismissed as simply a “riot”.

Don’t be distracted by terms like “rioting”. Whether you’re for or against uprising and rebellion (side-eye if you’re against it, though), it’s a tool, not the issue itself. The issue is yet another Black teenager murdered by police. His name was Mike Brown.


A personal handwritten letter from Tupac Shakur, while in prison to Angela Ardis, including a very brief autobiography.






Johnny Depp supporting #boyincroptops1984

(Source: shialablunt)



Willow Tree | Alton Ellis

July 25th in the mourning

A morning favourite is driving up to an open space on the street and realizing I’m 10-15 minutes early. I slide my seat back and uncurl my chair, using the pillow I normally place as a booster to now rest my heavy head. I’ll either listen to an audio-book or invite the one I am currently reading to my lap. Unroll the windows and enjoy the salty air upon my lips.

There, I linger, in my own private cove while the minutes inch toward the work day. When I glance at my phone to keep track of the time, I sometimes look out the open frame and notice other shadowy, resting figures in their respective islands- unwilling to detach themselves too soon from the comfort of their freedom. Then, it’s two minutes til and I unslump myself, check the mirror for stray hairs, and return the book to the passenger’s seat. Wind the windows back up and gather my bag-pack. That’s when we all meet, squint eyed and lazily, heavy footed strangers trudging past one another as we regain composure. We don’t wave or smile or even nod at one another, but I feel akin to them and am happy to see these waking ghosts cross my path.