Oreos&OxyeyeDaisies

There is a particular kind of exhaustion, that has nothing to do with sleep. It lives in the chest. It makes generosity difficult,  not because the heart is selfish, but because a well that has never been filled cannot be blamed for having nothing to offer. I know this about myself now.  I hold it gently.  I do not say it out loud. I have been sick in ways  that nobody documented. Fevers that broke quietly. Nights the body waged its small wars  and I was both  the wounded &  the nurse the one shaking  and the one saying  you will be fine,  you have to be fine, there is no one coming,  so you have to be fine. Not once did I crumble. But I want you to understand  what it costs  this relentless, graceful  self-rescue. What it takes from a person  to be, for years,  the only one  who notices  when she is not okay. Perhaps, in another universe, I arrive into rooms already belon...

If you spill wine, drink what’s left and laugh. If you paint a fresco, don’t cover it with a blanket and tell the whole Forum not to look.  Didn't understand? Well dive in to comprehend what it means!  Rome, in the 12th year of Emperor Tiberius, smelled like baked bread, olive oil, and secrets. I was a wine seller in the Subura, and business was good because my wine was cheap, my gossip was free, and my tongue was faster than the chariots on race day.   It began with Senator Aelius. He had built a marble villa outside the city walls, on a hill where the air was clean and the view was better than the wine at the Emperor’s table and on the southern wall of his villa was a fresco, a very private fresco. How do I put this delicately? Let’s just say it was  anatomically ambitious????? The Senator’s Mistake: One morning, Aelius marched into the Forum, red-faced and shouting: “No one is to speak of the fresco on my villa wall! No one! I’ll have any gossip punished by law!”...

Simply, when we assume that our objective interventions operate in isolation, we risk magnifying unintended effects!!!!!  Btw do you know if Kaito is worth dating? No? You will tho, by the end of this!!!  The British colonial government wanted to reduce the number of dangerous cobras in Delhi by offering a bounty for every dead cobra. This was a logical and seemingly “right” solution. People began breeding cobras to collect more bounties. The population of cobras temporarily increased instead of decreasing. When the government discovered the manipulation and ended the program, breeders released the now-worthless cobras into the wild. The final cobra population became higher than before the intervention. The population model with an incentive term B (representing breeding due to bounty) shows: P(t+1) = P(t) + rP(t) + B Where: P(t)= current cobra population rP(t)= natural growth of cobras B= extra increase due to breeding for bounties Hence, good intentions without systemic th...

The morning sun, with golden rays, awakens worlds, and chases night's gaze. The midday sun, with fervent might, illuminates all, in radiant light, The evening moon, with silvery glow, lulls the world to sleep, in gentle flow, But which of these three, is most divine? The morning sun, with its nascent shine? Or the evening moon, with its gentle beam? FOR ME, it's the midday sun, that's the supreme. I'd love to be, like thee, O midday sun, hated, yet admired, by everyone. For though thou art, a burning, fiery ball, thou canst not be ignored, thou must be faced by all. Not a fleeting dawn, nor a gentle night, but a presence vast, a searing light. Feared, yet faced by all who live, a truth relentless, no shade to give. Thy heat, and light, and energy, and might, make thee a force, that's felt, both day, and night. And though thou may'st, be hated, and despised, thou art, a presence, that cannot be denied. I'll be the sun that makes thee sweat, makes thee sigh, ...

Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! I'm free from the fate, Of being a domestic goddess, an apron-clad mate, No kitchen slave, I! No, I shan't be tamed, By the siren song of saucepans, the seduction of flames. For I’m a gourmet of dreams, a Michelin-starred brain,   And your apron fantasies are a bit too plain.   So darling, take your pots, your pans, your plight,   And cook up a fairy tale elsewhere tonight   No, my dear, I’m not your rotis and rice queen,   I serve sarcasm for dinner, and ambition between.   If you dream of casseroles with love baked inside,   Find a microwave sweetheart; I’ve got goals worldwide. Would you like a side of “Please, wash your plate”?   Or a sprinkle of “Why is dinner always late?”   Because if apron strings are what tie us in knots,   Let me snip them, dear, before the tension rots.   My fantasies? They involve breaking glass ceilings,   Not crackin...

When the game grows fierce and your steps grow wild, And the world watches, eager, their faces beguiled, If your laces betray you, if they loosen and stray, Know, my love, I’ll be there to smooth the fray. I’ll kneel on the field as the crowd roars on, With fingers tender, though the moment is drawn. Each knot I’ll weave will hold more than a tie.  It’ll bind my devotion beneath an open sky. Your sweat may fall, your breath may race, But I’ll steady your steps in love’s quiet grace. For in every loop, in every thread I lace, Lives the rhythm of my heart, your steadfast space When you stumble on paths no one else dares tread, I’ll clear the stones, smooth the road ahead. When the sun burns harsh and the shadows grow long, I’ll shield your face, humming your favorite song Let the game rage on, let the stakes run high, Let the ball soar like a dream in the sky. But when you falter, my hands will be true, To tie your shoes and my soul to you. So play with passion, leap, and strive, For...