We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
This Tumblr fully supports, “I don’t feel like it” as a perfectly viable reason for a Black woman not to go out of her way to do a damn thing for somebody who ain’t doing shit for her.