Mike Driver
Game of Thrones Daily
ojovivo
noise dept.
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Cosmic Funnies
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
The Bright Sessions
Love Begins
NASA
KIROKAZE
if i look back, i am lost
🪼
Today's Document
shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
oozey mess
titsay
almost home
Origami Around
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@honeyied-dew
Everyday I fall in love a little bit with everything around me.
Aesthetic Alt. I'm have my WIP lines here. Going through different aesthetics like they're air.
You might know me as @existentialdruid. Feel free to interact.
Welcome<3
Tags:
H -original posts
Wip -lines that I've come up with
Music -a song that I feel
“It’s easy to love someone when they’re happy. What’s hard is loving someone when they’re crying on the bathroom floor at 2am because everything came crashing down at once.”
— midnight thoughts (via longanimite)
Okay, i think it's time to change the theme of my blog again. I've had this one for too long
you can’t scare me with a knife because i’ll just get horny
im so curious abt what ppl carry around on the daily.....rb & tag what's in ur pockets/bag?
i love being a lover and i also love being a hater and i also hate being a hater. but i don't hate being a lover. never ever
peach juice
i. Hazy dreams of red, dashes of colour cloud her vision. She will lose herself in a maze of blinding sounds and shrieks of emotions she will never quite understand. ii. She loves her garden. There is a peach tree with little pink flowers cascading down from it, and a plastic swing, lovingly painted in garish reds and yellow. Carpets of soft, rich grass seemed to expand for miles, decorated with the wilting blossoms of her tree. iii. A trickle of sweet, sticky juice runs down her chin when she kicks her legs up to the sky. Small giggles bubble from her lips as she tries to catch the nectar with her tongue, and she kicks her legs back down again. iv. The ropes of the swing are slippery from her delicate fingers, smothered in peach juice. She knows she will have to hold on extra tight, even though there will be scars on the fragile skin of her hands the next day. v. Then she cannot bear to keep her eyes open, she yearns for the innocent luxury of ignorance. vi. And sharp tendrils of grass will lazily wrap around her limbs to root her to the ground. Her head will begin to dance, and rosy pinks and soft yellows will melt into indistinct smudges of pure, snowy white. A tiny smile will grace her lips for the final time as one of the blurry smudges will reach its pale hand out to her own, now adorned with harsh, bloody imprints fleeting across cold skin. vii. Screaming lights of indistinct colours will paint the back of her eyelids. The sounds are so bright, the colours are too loud, her vision will begin to fade away. viii. What are you doing? ix. This is not your memory to watch.
There is a place within, open like an eye.
Are you a weapon?
1. Does anyone know when a weapon comes of age? Pinpointing the precise moment a thin piece of metal stops being a leaf spring and starts being a knife.
2. No one asks if the whetstone is guilty. It can’t hold itself.
2. Who is staying up late right now, pushing the limits of alchemy to turn a hammer back into a hammer after it’s been covered in blood?
3. Toolboxes and sheds and dusty cupboards, filled with sleeping things that will change the second violent fingers wrap around them.
4. Did anyone ask if Chekhov’s gun was loaded? Or did we put our fingers on the trigger and squeeze because we were almost at the end of Chapter 3?
The codex of weapons is endless. The constant is singular: human.
“the meaning of life is love” if you mean romantic then no, I am walking away from your definition and mind that values romance as the single pillar of life. if instead you mean the devotion of a friend to knowing the recipe of your favourite soup, the never-ending patience of your fingers scratching your pet’s itchy fur in just the perfect spot, the gentleness of the old neighbour tending to flower that will only bloom one year but they think still deserve to have the best care, the child reading a book of its most beloved story to a sibilng. if you mean humanity looking at the world and asking “who are you and how can I love you” and after not getting an answer, inventing poetry and song and science to understand, to adore, to remember. then yes. I walk towards you.
i see you, lovely souls who feel alone, left behind. i see you, pure souls who sacrifice pieces of themselves to heal the wounds of others, only to bleed in return. one day you you will see yourself too, i promise.
Ivan Marchuk.
“it is a mistake being incarnate; I should be made of the same substance as the dark.”
— On the Spectrum of Possible Deaths, ‘Bats’ by Lucia Perill
YOU GO SKINNY DIPPING IN THE MOUTH OF A GAINT . LEFT BETWEEN TEETH RAW AND WET . FINGERS ROLLING OFF THE TONGUE . BURNING STARS AS YOU KISS. PEELED SKIN - A LEMON GROVE . SOUR TO MEANING YET SOFT AS IT GOES DOWN THE THROAT. HIS HIPS BUCKLED OVER YOU , SCISSORS CUTTING TILL YOU’RE BOTH ONE IN THE SAME.
YOU LAY AND HE PRAYS - TWISTING FINGERS BETWEEN THE CURVES OF YOUR WORDS. PULLING HIMSELF A LIGHTED FIGURE BLESSED TO BE BETWEEN YOUR LEGS. HE - MAMMOTH LIQOUR KISSED TURNS RED AS YOU LEAN BACK. BODY FRESH AND TEASING HE GIVES AWAY TO RAPTURE.
WHAT ARE YOU BOTH ? SCRIPTURE SAYS YOU ARE LAYERS OF TIME , LIMBS IMPOSED ON FAITH . A LONG DRIVE INTO THE HEART OF DIVINITY. YOU ARE GOD SENT - HOPE ONTO SALVATION , AND DREAMS TO THE FORGOTTEN. AND SO YOU BECOME MAN AND GOD IN TENDER COLORS.
from @nosebleedclub ‘s prompt dated march first twenty-twenty-three venus and jupiter.
You can suffer nostalgia in the presence of beloved if you glimpse a future where beloved is no more
