angel moon
Text
Remembering That Nothing Lasts Forever
Everything changes.
This can feel frightening—or clarifying.
How would you live differently if you truly remembered this?
Text
Between work, errands, and YouTube nonsense, I’ve been trying to distract myself all day: my partner and I have made the decision to put one of our cats, Sweet Pea, to sleep Friday morning. We took her to our family veterinarian yesterday afternoon to talk about her quality of life. She’s 17 now, and due to her neurological decline, her quality of life is definitely not what it used to be and will only get worse and worse and worse. I spent the morning figuring out the logistics, not only making the appointment for euthanasia but also talking to the owner of a pet crematorium nearby in order to discuss bringing her in once she’s passed and choosing an urn for her ashes. So, I spent the morning basically suppressing crying for hours on end. I’m going to moderate my work in the next couple days so that I can spend as much time with her tomorrow and have the day off on Friday. My partner has already put in for a half day so that she can be there, both for Sweet Pea and for me.
Text
“To Hold” — Li-Young Lee
So we’re dust. In the meantime, my wife and I
make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet,
we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight,
measuring by eye as it falls into alignment
between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I’m lucky,
she’ll remember a recent dream and tell me.
One day we’ll lie down and not get up.
One day, all we guard will be surrendered.
Until then, we’ll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn’t for our having.
So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I’ll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.
Text
Becoming Human: Living in a Dying World
Becoming human is not a beginning. It’s a return. A return to nature, to mortality, to connection, to the parts of ourselves we were taught to fear or ignore. Somewhere along the way, society convinced us that being human (indirectly) was a flaw, that our emotions were weaknesses, our limits were failures, our mortality was a threat, and our need for connection was something to be ashamed of. We were told to be productive instead of present, efficient instead of alive, comfortable instead of conscious.
But comfort can be toxic. Comfort can be a cage. Comfort can keep you from ever meeting yourself.
I’ve been unlearning that. I’ve been reminding myself, grounding myself in a truth that feels older than language: I am part of nature. I am part of the cosmos. Not metaphorically. Literally. My body is made of the same elements as the stars. My instincts follow the same rhythms as the seasons. My life is bound to the same cycles as every creature that has ever lived.
And when I remember that, I become human again.
Becoming human means making peace with mortality. I’ve always been comfortable with the fact that I will die. Not in a morbid way, in a clear, grounded way. I once wrote a poem about the Grim Reaper being my best friend, because death reminds me to live. Death reminds me to choose intentionally. It reminds me not to take people for granted. It also reminds me that time is sacred precisely because it ends.
Most people don’t want to look at that. They cling to the idea of “not dying alone,” as if romance is the only form of connection that matters. But dying alone is not what they think it is. Hospice nurses exist. Care workers exist. And if you’ve cultivated real friendships — not placeholders, not transactional bonds, but true connections — those people will be there too.
The real tragedy isn’t dying without a spouse. The real tragedy is living without connection.
Becoming human means rejecting emotional scarcity. Society teaches us to be desperate — desperate for love, for validation, for someone to save us from loneliness. Desperate people are easier to control. But when you remember you are nature, you remember that love is abundant. Connection is abundant. You can lose someone through a breakup or death, and still love again. Your heart is not a finite resource. It regenerates. It grows back.
Becoming human means letting go of the idea that one person must fulfill every emotional need. It means valuing friendship as deeply as romance. It means understanding that community is not optional; it’s the ecosystem we were designed for.
Becoming human means grieving without collapsing. It means loving without clinging. It means opening without fear. It means accepting that endings are natural, that cycles are real, that nothing in nature is permanent and nothing in nature is wasted.
Becoming human means saying no to the scripts that were written to keep you compliant, afraid, and emotionally starved. It means choosing your own values. It means choosing presence over performance. It means choosing connection over scarcity. It also means choosing to live like a creature of the earth again.
And it feels like freedom.
Text
I often find myself dreading my own mortality, terrified of death to the point it brings me to tears. I don’t want to leave my friends, family, and partners behind. I’m religious but I have doubts every now and again and the thought of ceasing to be is terrifying.
I know that all life is temporary, it’s all we have in common with everyone else, that we are finite. Most of the time I can get away with not thinking about it, but we live in an age of such great despair and death that I’m constantly reminded of human mortality.
I know I wouldn’t feel this way if my job didn’t feel so horrible to work. At least not as often. I’d probably be a lot less conscious of my lifespan if I was a full time artist. I definitely wouldn’t feel this way if I was a cis woman or if I knew I was trans earlier in life.
I’m only 25 but I feel like rather than being a young adult, I see my life as “30% done”. Most people only live to see 20 presidencies and I’m already on number 7.
I don’t think young people are meant to understand or accept death, that’s something that comes as you age, but God I hope I start to accept it soon. It terrifies me.
Text
I am already with you. Tender is the night and happy the Queen Moon sits on her throne, surrounded by all her starry fays.
Text
“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow, and I am in them, and that is eternity.” - Edvard Munch
Text
Living Near Nuclear Power Plants Linked to Higher Cancer Mortality Nationwide - Science News
The closer a county is to a nuclear power plant, the higher its cancer death rate appears to be—raising new questions about nuclear energy’s hidden health costs. Counties located closer to operating nuclear power plants (NPPs) show higher cancer death rates than those farther away, even after researchers adjusted for income, education, environmental conditions, smoking, […]
Read more about this…
Text
They were so fucking alive. And they were dead already. And it broke his heart.
Brandon Taylor, from The Late Americans
Text
I’ve been waiting for this day.
The day my yearly cancer screenings finally come back abnormal. My labs have been off for the past 6 months anyways, shrugged off as normal.
My risk for many cancers is 3 fold the normal healthy person due to my conditions and immunosurpessing medications. It’s one of the many risks of the medications I chose to stay on to live a better more functional life. I knew the risks when I agreed to treatment. I had my advance directives signed and filled out at age 18.
Its never a worry of “if” i get a type of cancer.
It has always been a worry of “when and what kind”
To be honest I am relieved. I am ready. Whatever it is we will follow up with next steps. I came to terms with accepting death at an early age. Provider messaged me today that someone will be reaching out to schedule a biopsy. No prayers or encouragement please. I honestly don’t need it nor want it. I am a huge believer in everything happens for a reason. I have such a complex medical history and fought to survive so many times, this is just another bridge to cross.
I don’t want sympathy, I just wanna have fun and laugh.
Text
my heart is a clock
each tick a thinning thread,
each tock a fleck of rust
loosening from the ribs of time.
seconds bleed into minutes,
minutes into hours,
hours into days that fall
like brittle leaves from a failing tree.
the hands keep moving, faithful and cold,
though the metal underneath them
is quietly giving way.
one day the ticking will soften
not into silence at once,
but into a hush so slight
it feels like mercy.
and then
no chime, no shatter
just a clock that has forgotten
how to count. ⏦
Text
“Hummingbirds”
Whimsy Meets Mortality in Fantastical Paintings of Skeletons With Butterfly Wings
Artist Sandra Yagi has always loved science, developing a unique interest in anatomy and the human skeleton. But rather than turning it into a dark source of inspiration, Yagi has found it a vehicle for whimsy and fantasy. Her show titled The Faerie Realm at San Francisco's Modern Eden Gallery compiles her playful paintings starring a skeleton who engages in nature with a wide array of colorful creatures.
“Leaf Rowboat”
“Fireflies”
“Poison Dart Frogs”
“Mushroom Dance”
“Sea Dragon”
“Beetle Rider”
Text
I yearn to feel my back against the hard ground. Not like a laying down kinda way, but like I’ve fallen straight out of the sky onto the ground kind of way. I need a reminder that I am mortal.
I could make like. A pair of wings like how Daedalus made a pair for Icarus. But I’m not stupid so when I fly to the sun, I go back down when my feathers start to melt. Which in turn will probably make me go ‘YEOUCHH!!!’ And then I would get too close to the sea which would clog my wings.
THEN I’d fall into the sea and drown because I’m a bum and don’t know how to swim. Probably make a noise like ‘bluBUlbuBUBUbleBul’ with lots of splashing sounds before I drown.
Yikes.
Text
“Combined with the circumstances that followed my stay at Tougaloo: King’s death, Kennedy’s death, Martha’s accident, all of these things really made me see that life is very short, and what we have to do must be done now.” -Audre Lorde, Black Women Writers at Work