Pourquoi Pas.

.................................. Hɛℓɛη ................................. 25 | ♀ | 2w1 | ♋ | INFJ | 🇬🇷 | Hufflepuff Obsessed with TV series, movies, fictional couples, music, writing, history, countries, languages, musicals, art, literature, traveling, architecture, cooking and much more...

[wei--wuxian]

what are your twenties if not an endless string of the ghosts of who you thought you would become

[sophielovesbooks]

How old were you at the lowest point in your life? Reblog this and put it in the tags, plus your current age maybe. I'm trying to see something.

[shisasan]

𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟷 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

[queen-breha-organa-archived-dea]

I just found this quiz and it’s, phenomenal

A quiz for artists and writers to figure out the primary emotion they create from. 28 questions, 15 results that are about 150 words each, d

[queen-breha-organa-archived-dea]

I haven’t seen anyone else get grief yet and like…

[amarguerite]

[blondevintagelover]

[fatalfaery]

“She was passionately romantic. She spun more and more fantastic daydreams until her longing for love became an obsession.”

— Nancy Mitford, The Pursuit of Love (1945)

[rosycheeksandredhair]

i would like to spend the rest of my time loving things. so i will.

[feral-ballad]

To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it’ is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?

Jeanette Winterson, from Written on the Body

[firstfullmoon]

love that autumn is such a good season to romanticize in any way. like yes the inconsolable season & yes to be with her is to sit in autumn sunlight & yes everything is touched by autumn’s sadness & yes when i think of autumn, i think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die & yes i think, i too, have known autumn too long & yes autumn was my happiness. yes yes both melancholy & renewal, both loneliness & comfort

[zendayamybabe]

i’m a simple girl i see a man with brown soft hair and brown eyes and big arms and a kind heart and i get a little stupid

[themakeupbrush]

Beatrice Luigi Gomez, Rabiya Mateo, and Celeste Cortesi for BYS Cosmetics x Disney

[bizarrelovesquare]

unironically love the phrase “but I’m being so brave about it” because truly, like, what other choice do we have in this wretched existence? what a beautiful way to remind yourself to keep going, even if only out of spite

[ursulaklegay]

actually i love growing older and learning how i work as a person like realizing what kinds of fabrics feel best on my skin or what brand of yogurt i like best or how I want to be touched. watching myself change, enjoying brussel sprouts when I used to hate them as a child, understanding why I got angry in that one conversation 10 years ago… there are so many mysteries inside me that i have yet to unravel and there will always be more and sometimes i think maybe its all worth it

[creativegoblin]

Made a uquiz, after wanting to for a long time. Which type of monsterfucker are you? (It’s safe for work)

[thegirlthatcriesacademia]

Mackenzie Herbert, Chasing Trains // Artwork by @/archbudzar on ig // Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration // Lana M.H. Wilder

[prescription-cactus]

what is your eye color. what is your favorite color. what is the color that appears most frequently in your wardrobe. what color is your favorite blanket. what color is your water bottle.

[ganymedesclock]

I think one of the most fun things about people’s writing is revealing the quiet, personal mythology of individuals.

I’m not talking about their spirituality or their religion. I’m talking about the things that evoke immense emotion in us one way or another that we struggle to explain why and- thus- the symbolism in our stories that to one interpretation is really only for us, if I write a scene where a character as a child eats an orange sherbet push pop that maybe to everyone else it will be an irrelevant detail, and I feel alone in the overwhelming nostalgia and softness of sun-soaked childhoods at a very specific park and a routine I used to follow for no particular reason- but I like to think it’s not, only for me.

I think that, while it’s a folly to presume to know the mind of anyone you’ve only read the work of, there is a kind of intimate exchange in storytelling. We talk often about obscure or strange trauma triggers, people whose minds have somehow condensed an abusive experience down to the sight of eggs on a plate or a particular song but only when it’s whistled- but these forms of trauma simply reflect a broader truth in human understanding. We make patterns out of the strangest things.

“Pareidolia” is the proper term often used, and, as I so often like to do with words, I chew it apart into its pieces and look for pretty fragments. Pareidolia is simply the way that we look for, and see things- patterns, faces, hands- where they do not factually exist. The things that are most important to us make soap bubble distortions out of our world. But inside of that word is ‘idol’, like an idol for a deity. I am sure that presence has other meanings, but a part of me imagines it almost as a personal pantheon. The strange gods of the life that only we have lived, and that we share at a thousand small places with others.

The god of my childhood is orange sherbet push pops, eaten in summer, earnest attempts made to lap up all the sweet sticky syrup before it drips too far but never successful, and the plastic ‘umbrella’ (really the pusher, but it was always an umbrella to my eyes) taken to play with and turn in my fingers long after the cardboard tube was gone. Perhaps, somewhere in the world, there are other people that know that particular god.

A curious thing to call divine. Just one memory among many. But whenever I see them again, it’s like turning over a page in an old yearbook and there’s your best friend who you haven’t seen, who you wonder what they’re doing now. The vocabulary of our most intimate and personal experiences are littered with ostensibly meaningless objects that held our hearts once.

If I read a story, and two people eat peaches together, lovingly described, gently rendered, I wonder if the author’s first love tasted like peaches.

[mhango]

Source: asiyami_gold