hillside manors on the banks of toxicity @betterlookoutbelow - Tumblr Blog

hi!

i am not sure if this is of interest to anyone, but this is an inactive blog and i foresee i won't be coming back to it. i initially wanted to delete it, even, but i valued my highly obsessive curation of aesthetics too highly to do that! i am currently busy living in the real world, feeling very far removed from the digital plane, working on attaining skills and knowledge, connecting with my friends and overall taking care of my health, and i encourage you to do the same! i recommend anyone who feels tired from the constant info cycle to take time for themselves, too. i wish all of you all of the attainable happiness and success on earth, and may all your hopes come true ♥️

joannanewsomtruisms

AND IN THE NIGHT, LIKE YOU, I CERTAINLY BITE AND CHEW WHAT I CAN FIND AND NEVER SEEM TO LOSE THE TASTE

#criminally underrated song

salemwitchtrials-deactivated202

[image description: a quote from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson.

‘A not admitting of the wound

Until it grew so wide

That all my Life had entered it-’]

joannanewsomtruisms

ENOUGH OF THIS TERROR WE DESERVE TO KNOW LIGHT AND GROW EVERMORE LIGHTER AND LIGHTER

lesbiskammerat

That’s a pretty cool political opinion you got there dude. Did your web of online friends and mutuals who all subconsciously monitor each other and self-correct in a panopticon-esque fashion to ensure that your views all stay in line with each other’s at all times pick it for you?

weltenwellen

Judith L. Herman, Trauma and Recovery

#cannot believe that pandemic 2:the movie is making me deal with my childhood #what a year

a-ramblinrose

I once asked my friends if they’d ever held things that gave them a spooky sense of history. Ancient pots with three-thousand-year-old thumbprints in the clay, said one. Antique keys, another. Clay pipes. Dancing shoes from WWII. Roman coins I found in a field. Old bus tickets in second-hand books. Everyone agreed that what these small things did was strangely intimate; they gave them the sense, as they picked them up and turned them in their fingers, of another person, an unknown person a long time ago, who had held that object in their hands. You don’t know anything about them, but you feel the other person’s there, one friend told me. It’s like all the years between you and them disappear. Like you become them, somehow.

Helen Macdonald, H is For Hawk (via existential-celestial)