cherries and wine

indie. sel. multiverse witch oc.

[highthymes]

h e y  y’all—!   for some reason I have been getting a stupid amount of spam on this blog &     along with some other,  unpleasant things.   and well i don’t use it much in any case  (shrug)

catch me on my garrett hawke and blake belladonna instead &  if anyone would like to continue their interactions with this muse,  I’m always open to rping on discord!

[highthymes]

I caught up on rwby season 4&5 finally and y’all. i love rwby so much. i’m gonna make a blog. or two.

[astr0freak-blog]

Water signs as types of water

(written by wandering-raconteur)

Cancer - Stream. The fresh water that trickles along the dent in the land. She offers water to the thirsty animals and humans. She offers survival. She lets you feel her most gentle touch, a liquid breeze. She offers pebbles to the bored, clean water to heal wounds and wash. She offers fish for food, a pretty and gentle sound as you traverse the land around her. If you listen carefully, she’s whispering to you the way to go. If you travel towards her core, you’ll find she’s deeper than anticipated, larger and stronger than you thought. She’s more dangerous than she will ever let you think, and feels more than you might see. 

Scorpio - Marianas Trench. The deepest body of water. He hides the creatures of the dark, untouchable to the human race. You can’t touch his soul, for it’s compressed beneath tons of fluid. He will not let it show. He will not let you touch it. It belongs at the bottom where only his most beloved creatures can reach it. He is mysterious, a fascination. You only know what he lets you see, what he lets you feel. He stings your wounds, heals you, is inside your blood without your knowledge. He sees the deepest parts of you, but will never let you deep enough to see his.

Pisces - Pacific Ocean. The largest ocean. She sees every boat that has come and that will come. She makes every wave, feels the splashes of children’s feet on her shorelines. She is friends with all the creatures of the deep, brushes the ocean floor so gently, creating places for her mermaids to hide. She licks your wounds with her salty potion. With all she has learned, all that she feels, she is dangerous. Do not cross her body before understanding and caution. She is beautiful, but she demands the respect as the oldest soul on earth.

water / earth / fire / air

[highthymes]

I’m gonna be isolated in the forests of east texas, with no internet and no cellular, for about a week. if you’re interested in plotting a multipara thread, come at me y’all, ‘cause i’m gonna have hours and hours with nothing to do but write come tuesday so I could whip up lotsa starters! i’m also gonna post up lots of memes for drabbles, questions, starters, etc.

[gomenos]

from” Longhair Metal world” group on facebook

[freshmoviequotes]

Monsieur Verdoux (1947)

[hippieseurope-deactivated202503]

Sensitive souls don’t have it easy in this cruel world. They feel like their souls are getting trampled on in so many ways. That’s why you see their eyes light up when they can caress a face or an animal, or breathe in the scent of a flower.

Sereno Sky, author of the Hippie novel “Lonely Traveller” (via hippieseurope)

[kalesbug]

Trying to find something to motivate myself and I found this little line from Van Gogh

[highthymes]

shiloh: *sees someone smoosh a bug*

shiloh: *horrified*

shiloh: why did you kill it? it didn't do anything to u >:I

[highthymes]

WRITER AESTHETICS.

JOHN KEATS.

the lavender in sunsets. flowers in the rain. sunlight slipping through clouds. lazy summer afternoons. the heavy scent of musk. flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books. fireflies on a cool summer night. being wrapped in fresh bedsheets. the ache of wanting what you can never have. dripping sunlight like gold. loving someone so exquisite. soft lips and soft whispers. fingers through hair. names of lovers carved in trees. broken glass. the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.

mahogany wood. crisp winter skies with cold bright stars. the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog. empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room. pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness. cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol. a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered. a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day. the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment. your favorite sweater. parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing. the contrast of blood against snow. a purple split lip oozing blood. black eyes fading to blue to pale skin. the butterflies of falling in love for the first time. the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries. the romanticisation of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.

the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future. decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there. the way not even light can escape a black hole. the rich smell of old books. delicate veins in the wrist. ghosts filling lungs. shattered bones. raindrops on the tongue. rusting metal. nostalgia that aches. the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.

the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave. pouring rain and mud. a child’s fear of the dark. thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never ending ocean. the silence of three a.m. danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house. the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain. explainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night. ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.

the brisk pine air of being on a mountain. travels without a destination. those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory. screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive. coffee shops late at night. car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark. naps spent in the sun. novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins. the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders. ignoring flaws and loving life. wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain. impossible ideals. a quiet sunrise. walks alone. when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe. dazzling people. open lands stretching out into infinity. falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog. hollow bones. a preserved heart held in hands. twinkling stars above an old graveyard. the way everything turns to dust. silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom. self-inflicted flames. perfection depicted as a rotting corpse. death as bricks in the heart. lips barely brushing against each other. glassy glazed eyes. biting into a lemon. heart-shaped bruises. rotting flowers on a grave. dried blood and spilled liquor. the hush of dusk when it begins raining. the intimacy of a secret.

tagged myself.
tagging anyone else who wants to!

[highthymes]

still busy with holiday events! ahhhhh 😭

soon...... soon I’ll be a free bean again.

I hope y’all are well :) I’ll talk to ya soon.

[pagewoman]

I did not want to think about people. I wanted the trees, the scents and colours, the shifting shadows of the wood, which spoke a language I understood. I wished I could simply disappear in it, live like a bird or a fox through the winter, and leave the things I had glimpsed to resolve themselves without me.

Patricia A. McKillip (via pagewoman)

[chris-cold]

[further-up]

Moth spirit

[unspiritedaway]

[starbastard-gone]

This week has been hectic & it’ll probably be another day, maybe two, before I get to write. Hope you’re all having a happy holiday! I’ll catch ya on the flip side ✌️

[mariconi]