luna-tic

original snaps, occasional posts

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Loving is not just looking at each other, it’s looking in the same direction. – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in

The Little Prince

and so that must mean i love my prince.

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winter chill means more reasons to make bread 🍞☕🧣

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when i was younger i remember being most creative in the car during long drives. that was until my dad got a 'car tv' or whatever that is. after that i stopped thinking and would just watch frozen over and over again

but when the tv wasn't running my brain was at its wildest. I'd say the way i think today is bumpy only because my imagination and thought processes primilarily developed on long drives again, i remember that to actively think the tv had to be off.

now I'm 18 and far from creative. because now i can watch tv whenever i want and no-one's there to switch it off.

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this picture is another one of my weird car things i did back as a child. i would move my eyeballs rapidly so that i could see distant streetlights dancing. i would then make friends with the ones with two bulbs and mentally bully all the poles with only one bulb

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golden sunlight+ homemade donuts+ grassy lawn+ cutie besties= cottagecore dream come true

🌼🍁🏵️🥐🌄

posting this here.

since afra has blocked my bread/5sos account ಠ_ಠ

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I really love 5sos

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A Jar of Sunshine

I have a jar that I keep on my windowsill. It's filled up with little things like glitter,dried flowers, necklaces and jewellery,wax stamps. Also with notes from my friends, little scraps of pretty papers,dried tea bags that I enjoyed. What else? Little buttons, strings and yarns, walnut shells, sequins from an old blouse. That jar is almost like a potion jar,I'm no witch but it sure does stir up magic in me when I think of it.

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I'm dreaming of having a silent companion sit with me here, and we can slowly sip sweet tea and watch leaves floating by.

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Picnic with a Friend

A light wind blows, sun falling on our faces. I look at you, and see how the warm rays shine through your eyes and get reminded of sweet honey. Oh, and won't you dip your piece of bread in more honey, or would you perhaps like jam with it? Tell me more about you favourite jam, and how you would pick berries to make more for everyone else.

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I want to get secret letters filled with dried flowers.

I'm sat on the attic ground, as I open it delicate petals, now dry, fall onto my skirt. A slight rose like fragnance floats around and fades quickly, I slowly take out the thick letter, and more flowers fall onto my lap. These flowers are as ephemeral as our love.

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"Every day I discover more and more beautiful things. It’s enough to drive one mad. I have such a desire to do everything, my head is bursting with it."

-claude monet

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In the life of the painter, death may perhaps not be the most difficult thing. For myself, I declare I don’t know anything about it.

But 

the sight of the stars always makes me dream

in as simple a way as the blacks spots in the map, representing towns and villages, make me dream.

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To Theo van Gogh

Arles, Monday, 9 or Tuesday, 10 July 1888 

Letter #638

(The Letters from Vincent Van Gogh)

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Starry Gardens- part 3

I've been working on a calmer, relaxed watercolour series these days. This one's the third part of it.

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Cosmo's Garden

This is the first half of the watercolour series I've been working on this winter. It's based on structure in fluidity, I'm trying to put an endless feeling into a shape. I'm trying to give a full stop to something never ending, and somehow I could fit all of it onto a small sheet of paper. This feeling is something that would take long nights filled with thoughts to think up an allegory for, and still I've somehow managed to turn all of it into 'flowers'. While the dread itself got made into the canvas.

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A sketchbook page from last year

(that I actually like).

I figured that this sort of fits my whole cosmos theme that comes up from time to time. I can't really fit this into the series because it wasn't really made with that intent, but it does fit the whole them soo

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Come on, let's eat warm bread with melted butter by the quiet woods. As the winds blows in the shade, we feel the new leaves whispering and the old ones slowly falling on our heads. Almost as in slow-mo, they get stuck in our hair and between the pages of our books.

And long after this evening would end, suppose an eternity later, when we would open those books we would witness those same leaves, now rustic brown, falling down from in between the pages;

and as we would be looking at them flutter down to the ground, we would suddenly have this one evening in flashback on a cinema screen, and know in the back of our minds that the other one of us is thinking about the same thing right now.

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Flowers from Dorothea's Window Sill.

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Letters to Dorothea

(you're a queen selling dreams, selling makeup and magazines)