this and this and this

"Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night's sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too." Lemony Snicket Victoria; always here if you need to talk. they/them

[braveandgood]

I'm going to be posting original art work and writing on this blog! If you need to contact me I'll only be active there. Hope to see you there, friends!

[imxplorer-deactivated20180720]

Exploring Fort Green in Brooklyn / Photo by Pavel Bendov

[sickpage]

Jacob Robert Price Worn, 2014

[braveandgood]

If you hate Pearl you're trash!

She didn’t ask to be Hester’s illegitimate child! Her supernatural powers were thrust upon her when she was born but in the end she was the one who broke Dimmesdale from his bond of silence. Pearl is the epitome of innocence and is more deserving of a happy childhood then her Puritan peers.

[cy-lindric]

Sketchy necromancing Mairon 

[figurehervision]

Life lessons by Mr. Kendrick Lamar (x)

[braveandgood]

*puts on full face of makeup to write essay*

[lifeinpoetry]

You defy other godhood. I walk dry on your kingdom’s border Exiled to no good. Your shelled bed I remember. Father, this thick air is murderous. I would breathe water.

Sylvia Plath, “Full Fathom Five,” from The Colossus: And Other Poems  (via ibuzoo)

[flowerytwats]

Luke Newberry || twitter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

[hellanne]

[coral]

Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.

George Orwell, 1984 (via yumeni)

[vincentvangogh-art]

My only anxiety is, how can I be of use in the world?

Vincent van Gogh (via virrtue)

[notbecauseofvictories]

au where stars are watching humans

 observer effect

i. stars get it wrong, of course–they assume too much phosphorus and not enough fear of death, pulsar instead of pulse. They leave out uncertainty, not knowing what it was above the subatomic level; the softer shades of melancholy and the gentler warmths. But they get the shape right, the brighthot of blood. They get that right too.

ii. all their metaphors are for burning, and they ascribe to soft tongues a taste for sulfur, fingers at the ends of spiral arms. They drink liquid helium from a cracked Dewar flask and wonder aloud if humanity is looking up, looking back.

(how cold they must be, the stars’ carbon cousins–wet and cold, and can humanity do arithmetic in parallax, do you think, counting parsecs between two stars in inexorable collision?

it’s called a kiss, cygnus X-1 says quietly. they call it a kiss.)

iii. they say when you feel your child’s protoplanetary disc first differentiate, you will cry tears of methane.

iv. it’s called the Kindling, when the faint sheen of protostellar mass catches alight, and burns with all the brightness of adulthood. Protostars of thirteen stand around bathroom mirrors, examining their helium layer for bright spots, looking for stray molecular clouds in their nail beds. All of them are in love with the astrophysics teacher, whose stellar wind sends flickers of light across the meteor fields.

late at night (but what is night to a star?) they trace the spiral arms of their evolving galaxies, and dream dry dreams of neutron star collisions hotter than blue hypergiants.

v. we are made of starstuff, says a man, craning his thread-slender neck, looking up into the abyss of wind and fire of the universe.

oh, breathes a star, squinting down at the infinitesimal speck of rock, turning and turning in the vastness of space. oh. 

we didn’t have a name for us, before.

[cheesethetic-deactivated2017010]

i haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list

[marcioserpa]

Venice at dawn

[vrban]

You remember too much,
 my mother said to me recently.
 Why hold onto all that? And I said,
 Where do I put it down?

Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay” (via romesfall)

[nayx-deactivated20200109]

this planet sucks nothing works.  the Volcanoes dont work like 1/10 of them work.  the ocean is poorly lit.  the dryers in public washrooms dont do shit.  im sick of this place