YOU ARE THE REASON
Jules of Nature
Cosimo Galluzzi
Janaina Medeiros
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Three Goblin Art
titsay
Misplaced Lens Cap
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Andulka
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Product Placement
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NASA
KIROKAZE
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
styofa doing anything
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@melissapardo
Here is a clip from "T-Rex Standoff," staring me, Luna and the @nylabone dental dino! #dog #dogsofinstagram #dogs #dogsofig #dogstagram #dogsofla #dogslife #doglover #puppyflix #pupflix #bw #petstagram #petsofinstagram #pets #paws #pawsomemutt #petsoriginal #happydog #ilovemydog #corgi #staffy #standoff #dinosaur #video #movie #losangeles (at Los Angeles, California)
The great Ralph Ellison, born 103 years today, on race and the power of the writer in society in a rare 1966 interview.
How to leave a party: Ghost vs. Goodbye – another brilliant flowchart for modern life from artist Wendy MacNaughton and writer Caroline Paul (a powerhouse creative couple), who previously gave us Should I Check My Email? (one of the best infographics of 2013) and What Mode of Transportation Should I Use?
Pair with MacNaughton’s wonderfully thoughtful illustrated love letter to life’s meanwhile moments and some of our past collaborations.
My Epic Dilemma:
You want to go back to where the sky was inside us.
Margaret Atwood, from Selected Poems: 1965-1975 (via violentwavesofemotion)
Love Addiction
I pulled the trigger. As the charged words catapulted from the barrel of my verbal revolver, I feared that bullet may have been the final nail in my own coffin.
...and now it’s cold. So very cold.
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It had been weeks of holding back.The feeling creeped in like crank bugs under the skin of a meth addict: the insatiable, unforgivable JUNKIE ITCH without cure. The signs were all there, but tired from the struggle, my fatigued conscious forgot to consider the price for lack of caution. Stupid bugs. Stupid feelings. Swatting them away only agitated the beasts, amplifying their haunting sub-dermal dance...starting in small crevices, then slowly building an emotional colony just below the skin. I was infested.
The itch grew gradually, tearing away at a lifetime of protective barriers from the inside out. I clawed my skin, leaving bruises and tiny scabs--an unfair exchange for momentary relief from unrelenting pain. The scars will never heal. They never do.
Manifesting in dreams turned nightmares, imaginary words poured from unlocked lips, safely revealing secrets in the sanctity of a rested mind. The torture came in waking to the incessant pang of emotions unrequited.
To stanch the disease, I collected the nagging creatures, bundling them up into mental bullet casings, sealing them off so they couldn’t escape. Freeing the skin, however, did not free the mind. The itch was far too DEEP. The insect-packed shells became ammunition for a later date--I carried them with me, knowing that the time would come to set them free. The anticipation became my addiction.
But the time is never right when you’re a solitary soldier on a deserted battlefield and the war you fight is under your own skin.
Cleansed of the itch, bare skin became a breeding ground for INDIFFERENCE, longing. insecurity,insensitivity, and finally anger. Shedding a season of doubt and curiosity, I suited up for war, armed with the unsuspecting power of the unacknowledged and unresolved.
This loaded gun had been a burden for far too long.
I pulled the trigger, unleashing months of neglected emotion with simple heart-stopping words:
I love you....
Smoke curled over the barrel’s lip, teasing, as the statement hung heavy in the air between us.
Blue period.
J.K. Rowling #quote
Hopeless... #love #words #word #wordporn #poetry
“If I love you, what business is it of yours?”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (via nephisthebadwolf)
Searching for butterflies... (at Venice Beach Canals)
The butterflies are dead.
i don't wan to feel...
Wings.
Image by: Deep Owl Photography
Always trust your instincts…unless it’s butterflies. If it’s butterflies, don’t trust them at all.
At first, I hardly noticed them. I crept slowly, careful not to crush any that may have fallen. Though I could not see them, I felt their presence and waited patiently until my body adjusted to its surroundings; until my eyes were truly open. All at once, the scene changed and it was all but impossible to unsee what was before me: Tiny angels, spanning thumb to pinky finger, rapidly pacing high overhead.
A hundred feet above me they flew, flapping wings which appeared so large at a distance that, at first glance, I likened the creatures to bats. The sky was hardly visible through the dense storm of beautiful insects swirling through the claustrophobic grove of fragrant towering Eucalyptus trees. Bits of light crept through illuminating my metallic blue nail polish and the shiny silver buttons on my jacket, reminding me that it was still daytime somewhere, just beyond this dream world.
Yet, while I was standing there, I gave in to the butterflies. I let them swallow me whole.
From the tops of trees, they flew freely, having only their instincts to guide them. It’s a month before mating season and they came to this place to rest—a safe haven from the cold. I associated the pulsating state of restful unrest to my own racing mind and instantly envied their freedom to do what comes naturally; to know where they belong; to soar on currents of warm west coast air instead of sitting still in the confinement of cold hard walls.
I closed my eyes to isolate the sound of their wings rapidly smacking the air. The vibrations filled my ears and tickled my skin, raising goose bumps with each tiny, fairytale whisper. In the middle of this enchanted Monarch den where lazy butterflies take warm winter naps, I was a fixture of the forest—connected to something greater than me—I was entranced.
Reaching up, I stretched my arms and hands to get my fingertips just a little bit closer to the swell above. In the dark sanctuary of my eyelids, my own imaginary fiery orange wings unfolded and I lifted up on to my toes, hoping that one inch higher would be just enough to touch them…I was so close.
Smiling was irrepressible once I surrendered to my senses. From wing kissed ear to wing kissed ear, pure delight washed across my face. With the trust that my eyes would not betray the beauty my ears had promised, I craned my neck to form a straight line of sight through the mass of floating royalty.
I don’t remember when I had ever felt this alive—so entirely myself—lost and simultaneously so present. I may have felt dizzy. I might have lost my balance, or tripped with my head longing so deeply for the sky—but experience made me ever aware of the ground beneath my feet.
Consumed, I nearly missed the deep scratchy baritone noting the glimmer of a rainbow just peeking through the branches.
“Do you see it?”
His voice broke through my moment and my invisible wings began to fold away, once again seeking protection from the real world. It took my eyes another lifetime to refocus and my neck a million years to readjust to an appropriate 90 degrees. The butterflies continued to soar overhead, wisped by my cheek, whispering kisses in my ear while I watched him, blurry-eyed, as he buried his face behind his Canon DSLR.
A tall dark shadow mimicking my previous twelve o’clock stance, stood poised beneath a camera capturing hundreds of thousands of regal auburn flutters against a spectrum of color. He caught them all. Making slight adjustments to the lens, or shutter, or whatever other buttons he could push, he created his own lasting memories of the transient beauty before us.
The light through the trees highlighted his jawline, glistening off the dark scruff on his chin. The air around him smelled of coffee, and something else—Gummy bears. They were sticking out his back pocket. I stepped into his space, just close enough to touch him…I was so close.
Butterflies. Instinct kicked in, and all my senses dictated that I crawl under his black t-shirt and feel the warmth of his skin against my palms, press my ear against his chest to hear everything working, beating, inside. I desired to see this world through his lens—be part of him and his rainbow, the way I was with the Monarchs and with the grove.
For a single moment, he swallowed me whole…
Then all at once, the grove was still and the world above turned from orange to blue. My tiny angels began to fall as I willed the butterflies to go away. With gentle kisses and whispers that tickle, and though they fill my tummy with longing and hope and desire, it’s in their nature to always soar above, taunting and teasing as I remain planted on the ground.
I quickly silenced my fluttering heart, reminding it that you can’t always trust butterflies.
Butterflies lie.
working on mine.
...sometimes i feel things so hard, my skin hurts.
I cannot remember the books I’ve read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (via feellng)
And those who were seen dancing were thought insane... #wordporn #quote
