Me when I think about cute girls.
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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YOU ARE THE REASON

izzy's playlists!

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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Discoholic 🪩
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
we're not kids anymore.
Game of Thrones Daily
Stranger Things

PR's Tumblrdome
almost home

Kiana Khansmith
Sweet Seals For You, Always
$LAYYYTER
Monterey Bay Aquarium

⁂
hello vonnie
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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seen from Malaysia

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@ifafimb
Me when I think about cute girls.
wednesday (2022)
Nokstella, Eternal City
The Doubling of Self: An Interview with Richard Siken by Peter Mishler
Okay, this is twitter so we can't expect sources, but No 3 is "Heimkehr" (Return home) by Hans Adolf Bühler, painted in 1940.
I've seen this painting around a few times lately and as a (German) art historian I'm asking you to please be mindful of the art works you consume online. Art is and always has been powerful because it invokes emotions in us. Artists have always used that fact. We talk about media literacy so often on here, but that extends to other forms of art as well (beyond the written word). What do we see? Why did the artist depict the scene in this way? What can we assume about the artist's intentions?
For one, the man is a dead soldier, as we can tell by the title, the uniform, the general atmosphere. So he's the odd one out in this collection of lovers embracing, right off the bat.
Secondly, the title, the date and the general atmosphere raise some red flags - it's a blond youth heroically dying for the good of the country, in the arms of an equally blonde woman. Everyone is beautiful, young, soft, lovely. And as wikipedia tells us with one quick google search - "Hans Adolf Bühler was a German painter and National Socialist Kulturpolitiker."
In other words: It's a painting of a young, clean, beautiful German soldier, dying heroically, painted during the 2nd world war by a nazi artist-politician. It's soft, it's sentimental, it's painted in the traditional style favoured by the Nazis (as opposed to "degenerate" modern art) and it's intended to send a message. Let's try to decipher those messages in the paintings we see in the future!
Love is also continued frustration. It’s anger. It’s hurting. It’s denying it for months and only seeing its presence, for the first time, in a memory. It is not always just the butterfly chase that you expected. Sometimes it’s also resentment. It’s embarrassment. It’s putting all of your dreams on hold, totally swept in not realising. It’s endurance. It’s anguish. It’s not what you wanted, not what you went looking for in your absent search for the next thing. It’s intoxicating, it’s routine, it’s hard goddamn work. But they don’t tell you that. Or maybe they do. Maybe you weren’t listening. Maybe you were hanging off the end of a feeling late night WhatsApps gave you. Hanging off the end of movies, of prematurely-written poetry you’d penned in hope of one day arriving there with a person. It’s horrid. It’s gross. It’s real and it stinks in a romantic putrid parma violet sweetness. So today you hate yourself for thinking you knew what love was but when it arrived you couldn’t send it back quick enough. Laying in your pants on the sofa with last night’s curry reheated screaming to no one but the ceiling.
Charly Cox, from She Must Be Mad; “love part 2”
Brianna Albers, "The Audre Lorde Questionnaire to Oneself" // Anne Carson, Glass and God // Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood // @iasoup-deactivated20190921 // @puppy__problems on Instagram // p.d., "Rest Achilles, the world will wait" // Lyra Wren // @heartfeltbot on Twitter // Latin phrase translations // Emily Berry, Dear Boy
LETTER TO MY CHILDHOOD ME
franz wright // richey edwards // unknown // katie maria // little women (2019) // james baldwin // unknown // siickangel (?)
“I worry that my friends will misunderstand my silence as a lack of love, or interest, instead of a tent city built for my own mind.”
Tarfia Faizullah, from "Poem Full of Worry Ending with My Birth," published in Poem-a-Day
“I worry I can no longer pretend enough to get through another year of pretending”
Tarfia Faizullah, from "Poem Full of Worry Ending with My Birth," published in Poem-a-Day
when hands touch
and there lies your hand feeling the warmth of their hand, begging you to not put an end on this warmth even if something important comes up.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours
May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude
It is a longing so intense that it creates what it desires, it cannot endure any touch of correction; it is, as I say, unspeakable.
Shirley Jackson, The Sundial, 1958
Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red [ID in ALT]
Jeremy Radin, from Dear Sai
Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours
May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude
A great Hope fell You heard no noise The Ruin was within Oh cunning Wreck That told no tale And let no Witness in
The mind was built for mighty Freight For dread occasion planned How often foundering at Sea Ostensibly, on Land
A not admitting of the wound Until it grew so wide That all my Life had entered it And there were troughs beside -
A closing of the simple lid That opened to the sun Until the tender Carpenter Perpetual nail it down -
Emily Dickinson, from Envelope Poems
Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.
Carl Jung, “Memories, Dreams, Reflections”
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.
Franz Kafka, “Letters to Milena”
It’s so hard to speak and say things that cannot be said. It’s so silent.
—Clarice Lispector, Agua Viva