I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Love Begins
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Stranger Things
Keni
tannertan36
taylor price
noise dept.
KIROKAZE
pixel skylines
⁂
𓃗
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Cosimo Galluzzi
will byers stan first human second
if i look back, i am lost
todays bird
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
seen from Colombia
seen from Colombia
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Argentina
seen from Qatar
seen from Malaysia
@nmtzs-blog
Prompt: the art of saraheisart
We live in the same house and yet there is a mountain range between us. We pass each other on the stairs, in the kitchen, in the bedroom. But I am desperately lonely and cannot express it.
There used to be a time when we took effortless thousand-league...
Courtesy of http://writingexercises.co.uk/quick-plot-generator.php
“Your main character is a charming 21 year-old man. The story begins on a balcony. Someone takes the law into their own hands. It’s a story about the supernatural. Your character takes control of the situation.”
The tussle...
I started out as a writer-illustrator because of comics. My older brother had a huge collection and when I was about 6 or 7 I became aware of them. (Maybe I should have paid attention to the drawing as well; I wasn’t prodigious but I was prolific, and was pretty good at one point.) So I started...
…but you’re too afraid to know for sure. Wallowing in grief is much easier than the alternative: living as if it never happened, free from the weight of what’s come before. It threatened to crush you, but that’s not a bad thing.
Being trapped under it is safe, because you can’t get further down....
See you later alligator
You know it's childish that you dreamt of alligators yet when you are tired the young one comes out to play.
Then tired stacks upon tired, balancing itself on the tightrope of tired; well that is when alligators from the night come forth into the gutters of your every day.
And there stands Mrs Grown Up on the side lines. Arms crossed. Frown in place. Spectacles perched on the end of her nose. Tut-tut. Oh so bloody sensible.
Is there ever a clear winner?
Walls are drawn on. Great big swirls of colour. A hyperactive mess of upside down imaginings.
Walls are freshly painted. Great big brush strokes of cream. A calm tidiness of everything straight and narrow.
Your move. Her move. Ten moves full.
Packed away, in alligator skin suitcases, dreams slumber.
Come late morning, tip-toes unclasp and unpack.
There are no angels and devils on shoulders. Only the child and the adult, bickering away. Eating egg sandwiches. Drinking orange juice.
No backing down. Both take a stand.
Some experience this divisiveness of character.
Some stand firm in one camp. Reach a small age. Stop and stay.
To compensate for this others leap frog into beige slacks.
You with your alligator dreams and stern faced Mrs, you like to sit on the fence, feet dangling on either side, balanced by indecision.
Practice didn’t make perfect; it made OK. After years of denial and ignoring swimming, now that nobd was pressuring her, it was time to rediscover the water. She could have been a champion, but hated how the chlorine made her skin and hair feel; sopping wet but dehydrated at the same time. The...
…the future. It could be nailed down in a diary, but it didn’t really exist. This was why she didn’t like planning ahead; hers was a life of walk-in appointments and surprise visits, which dismayed her friends and family. Work was more difficult to get around - shifts and all that planned weeks in...
‘Write about something you’re good at’
I’m good at running. Sounds mad considering I’m a professional writer and have written since I could hold a pen, before running or sport was a glint in my eye. When I say ‘good’, I don’t mean fast or competitive - I mean consistent over time, which has been 10 years. Ten years back I moved back home to my parents’ after my relationship broke down, and I ran to stave off the boredom of walking. I ran for compliments and looser clothes, to chase squirrels and buses; I read up on ‘fartlek’ and learned not to laugh at the mention of it. I ran into a community and found kindred spirits, lots of them ‘not-a-runner’ types like me - but we ran and were runners, with the medals, Lycra and blackened toenails to prove it. I don't run so much now, but over the course of 10 years, a few months here or there doesn’t matter - because in 10 years’ time I’ll still go out for the odd trot. As with writing, I’ve learned ways of improving my technique because my own body is my competition. It’s more of a challenge to me to unlearn bad habits and learn new ones than simply outrunning someone else. Running is a lesson in feeling relaxed in my own skin, regardless of shitty weather and unwanted commentary. It’s taught me about my body and its quirks - and how to run pain-free. I’ve learned about mental and physical endurance, and that when I think I’ve hit a limit I’m wrong.
Diving was the most natural thing in the world. He'd been diving since he was old enough to swim, and probably even longer. It was a matter of pride.
"Throw it in!" he'd shout "Drop it there!" he'd cry
The thrill of watching it drop and sink was almost as good as retrieving it. Almost.
The best part was when it was something they couldn't afford to lose. The bigger the risk, the bigger the thrill. There was nothing he couldn't dive for. Nothing he woudln't dive for.
After diving for pearls, nothing else would ever compare.
Sometimes it was just too easy, and he'd have some fun. Dive deep, retrieve it, and then linger. His lungs seemed fathomless. Where other people gasped and choked, he'd still be calmly smiling. It was a cruel trick, really, and he knew it -- but an impish part just couldn't resist. Retrieve and linger and let them worry.
He'd hear their voices, the water amplifying the nervous edge. He'd see their blotchy, worried faces, distorted under the waves. And then he'd wait even longer. Just as they'd be about to dive in after him, he'd quietly resurface as if he'd merely ducked a head under.
This should have been no different. An expensive necklace, and they'd all encouraged the lady to drop it over the side of the boat. Boats made the challenge even better, because of the currents they would cause.
The stuffy lady had fussed and objected and made excuses, but in the end she'd given in. Perhaps resigning herself to an insurance claim, a wild story of a gang of exotic robbers. She'd extended her arm, held out her hand, the necklace dangled as her reluctant fingers peeled away. Then she dropped it.
He counted to five, and dove in.
Breaking the water like a seal or a dolphin, he dived so effortlessly, the necklace leisurely sinking a little ahead of him.
Down, down, the necklace went, and down, down, down he dived. He knew this stretch of water, knew the ocean floor, knew the tides, and knew the sandbars like they were a country garden.
It hardly stood a chance, he reached out one hand and closed his fingers around the necklace.
There would be no lingering and teasing today, he already knew. The boat wouldn't wait around for long, and though he had what felt like hours of air left, he felt a little sorry for the old, rich lady whose necklace it was.
A flick of the legs and he was cutting through the water towards the surface.
He stopped. The boat was already gone.
What really worried her
What really worried her was that it might be true.
She accepted that it was merely a chemical imbalance in her brain. Some crossed wires somewhere. It was no fault of her own, nor anyone's, just random bad luck.
She accepted that the thoughts and delusions and certainties were not true. So long as she took the right medication, took plenty of exercise, and most of all didn't dwell on these thoughts when they came -- merely recognised them, acknowledged them, and let them pass again -- then she could be happier and more peaceful.
Nobody was plotting against her. Nobody was stealing her post. Nobody was following her.
There was no such thing as demons. There are no monsters. The child staring at her on the Tube was not a lizard person. Just ugly.
Intellectually she accepted and believed these things.
On the balance of probability, the simplest explanation for why certain people had money and power was rooted in tediously dull politics, and not in the machinations of a secret society of demonic beings.
Her life was not being thwarted by people with an ulterior motive -- at least, no motive any more ulterior than the plain selfishness of nearly anyone you could have the pleasure of meeting. On a good day, she could regard herself in the mirror and quite coolly, calmly and consistently recognise that what she thought of as evil wasn't anything nearly so elaborate.
The easiest thing in the world was to accept these things, to accept that people loved and cared about her, and that the rest of the world was largely indifferent.
But the truth is her heart told her differently. Her heart told her that she could repeat these things, but she knew that she didn't really believe them. She could tell the doctor and convince him all she liked.
What really worried her was that they weren't delusions at all.
The trouble with being really good is that it's just not good enough.
Really good can sometimes just feel a little bit too much like average.
Take climbing, for example. Weeks and months of practice have paid off, and you are good. There's no arguing that. But you are not, and you never will be, excellent. To be excellent takes focus. It takes single-mindedness. It takes devotion.
You can traverse and leap. You can hang and stretch. You can struggle and grunt and swear until you get to the top, with a triumphant fist bump. To come from the earliest days to here is, undeniably, good.
But you are not like those guys, lithe and lean and muscular. You are not like the people hanging upside down from the ceiling. You are the guy who gives up. You are the guy who doesn't practice, who takes the night off, who has a pie for lunch and doens't burn it off.
The truth is, it will always be a stretch for you. You will never be quite tall enough, light enough, strong enough. You will never be dedicated enough.
The harsh truth is that really good doesn't win you any prizes.
I set this task because I know it can be difficult to talk/write about yourself in a positive light.
In my job I deal with body image. Constantly facts and stats, about how much people dislike their bodies, strike me in the face. If you ask these individuals what they like about their body often...
What really worried her was that tomorrow would follow today then today would be yesterday, before anyone’s time was done. At no point would she be able to grasp now, because now had already turned to then.
No matter how carefully she tightrope walked she could never fit into the precise moments of...
She was submerged in a pot of boiling water, surrounded by bubbles pushing, pushing upward, desperate to break free of the heat.
Yet as these tiny packets of freedom were marching to their destination she was going down, down.
Normally she thrived in water. Loved coolness as it enclosed her in...
I don’t understand why she left so abruptly. I thought we got along fine, although things were rather rocky at first. I’d yell at her for being late; well, on time, but when you’re on the shop floor you need to get here early. My standards are high and very particular, so I can tell that she’s...
The man was waiting with a sign. It had her name on it , wrongly spelled as expected. Her assistant wheeled her bags and cases towards him, silently gesturing for him to load them into the boot by sweeping past him and into the waiting car.
Lively texts and tweets and emails flew by during the...
A******** has been at work since 827am. I checked her log-in time. No doubt she had made herself a of tea by then and put away yesterday’s dishes from the drying rack.
I find this particular brand of ‘one-up-manship’ to be quite obnoxious.
There is absolutely no need to prove the point, every...
