Jan van Essen (Flemish, 1864 - 1936) - Sleeping Cat
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Jan van Essen (Flemish, 1864 - 1936) - Sleeping Cat
It’s strange to think that long before I had a name or a heartbeat, I existed in some shadowed, elemental way. Women are born with all the eggs they'll ever have, and these begin forming while they're still in the womb. So when my mother was just a fetus, the egg that would become me was already inside her. That means my grandmother carried not just my mother, but the beginning of me as well. For a fleeting moment, the three of use shared one body, and went through life together, layered like nesting dolls.
“You and the tree in your backyard come from a common ancestor. A billion and a half years ago, the two of you parted ways. But even now, after an immense journey in separate directions, that tree and you still share a quarter of your genes…”
— Richard Powers, The Overstory
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Margaret Llewyn Davis, featured in The Selected Letters of Virginia Woolf
camrihewie
Diana Li by Catharina Pavitschitz for Vogue Portugal March 2026
i love saving images onto my cell phone. it’s like picking berries
my 5 year plan is to get back my joy
someday in the future you’re going to stop and realize for a second how far you made it and that it was worth it like the happy ending epilogue of a book after the conflict.
this summer i am WRITING and PAINTING and READING and GETTING OFF OF MY EVIL IPHONE
when you start reading again and it's like oh. oh . the sun actually does still shine.
“In winter I think spring will be my salvation, and in summer I think autumn, and in autumn winter, it is always the same, I hope from one season to the next.”
— Thomas Bernhard (via wordswithinyou)
im like an older person but younger
If you spent the first half of 2026 in survival mode, may the second half be spent in revival mode. It’s time to heal.
On summer mornings I used to rise early, to enjoy them alone; on summer evenings, to linger solitary, to keep tryst with the rising moon, or taste one kiss of the evening breeze, or fancy rather than feel the freshness of dew descending.
Charlotte Brontë, Villette