And I do not agree. Heaven forbid anyone take offense, but I do not agree. This is not how it should be.
We’re planning on coming soon! Sadly, I do not have any patterns. Bags are pretty simple. Bags are always easy, just finished edges on rectangles. There are some really sweet ideas on this youtube channel called Threadbanger. They have a lot of different things. Good luck!
enable men to become the sons of God.” —C.S Lewis (via hisstorythroughmine)
Apparently pop culture has gone from referring to a girl as “pretty young thing” to “ass ass ass ass ass ass ass” hmmm. Despite MJ being the weirdest dude ever, I prefer the former. It’s a shame our culture fosters the idea of degradation.
Yes. I absolutely hate this song. The ‘ass’ song I mean. It’s completely disgusting how objectified women are made to be nowadays.
Welcome to 2011 and a culture of the overtly dehumanized.
Of people objectifying their fellow humans. Of use and coarse joking, of unholy restlessness and disturbing unfeeling turning the minds of people to this decrepit, hoary, rotting way of life that slowly creeps up on them till their whole body is leprous. Lepers have this way about them, they wrap themselves in bandages that their wounds and sores might not be seen. Quietly they decompose, their sensitivity gone, they do not feel when their flesh tears away. Nerves, skin, muscle, down to the bone. It is dead.
I feel that our culture is raising up hearts made of dead flesh. Men who think they are entitled to what they want, because what they want covers it up. And when I say “men” I mean “all man-kind”, those born of men and women, raised by men or women or both. We live in lonely places, full of disconcerting searches for filling. And it seems the hands of men reach for whatever it might be that might cover the ache till the leprosy kills the pain. Drown it, sleep it off, take the medicine, cover it up. Cover it up. Cover it up. Wrap those bandages about you, Man, though they may look like a girl for a night, or a blade, or a computer screen mocking you with fictional “reality”. It may sound like a compliment, a harmless experiment, a moment when you try to see if it floods that void like a tsunami. But those raucous waves wreck you in the end. Some things are specters, taunting man with their images, so he dashes himself against the walls they dance upon…but he’s dead…he cannot feel it. Some things are bandages. Covering the putrification of his soul, that dead thing that craves and craves, like a stomach full of tapeworms.
Maybe people are meant to be prized, and that is why it seems empty to me. Maybe they were made to be loved and treasured without lust and without mistrust, without craven images applied to the art of a Creator, without attempting to force those beautiful things that people are into a crude mold, fashioned by hate and destruction. Maybe we were meant to live alive, feeling, and seeing with clarity what it means to be Man-kind. And it doesn’t make sense to dead men. Because they have no idea that life is any other way. No idea at all.
I may sound harsh, but I am weary. Weary that my friends are tricked. That people are hurting my friends because they have bought the lies of specters. And my heart hurts for them. Even if they cannot feel it. I do.