willow.w

he/him are there still beautiful things?

[spacetravels]

per usual, notes app poetry writing

[oldlune]

“if the full moon loves you, why worry about the stars?”

[philosophors]

“Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.”

— Albert Camus, “Notebooks 1942-1951”

[surqrised]

“I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things with a heavy heart.”

— Albert Camus

[starlightacademia]

“Because tenderness depends on how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”

— Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

[rainreads-deactivated20250201]

I don't ever know, how to hold the weight of my soul.

When letting go.

But I'm falling in my own illusion,

I don't know my way back.

~Tongue Tied, Beta Radio.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

i sometimes feel like i am made of the color blue, not the innocent sky blue but the stormy blue, the blue you see in the evening sky after a storm.

[oldlune]

i had honey dripping from my fingers, and while i licked it off i thought of you.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

I wish I knew what to do with my life, what to do with my heart... I do nothing all day, boredom settles in, I look at the sky so I get to feel even smaller than I already feel and my mind keeps poisoning itself uselessly.

- Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

shimmering beautiful

[oldlune]

Bags by Clairo should be studied by scientists

[czesca]

new reblog game actually put in the tags what the blog you reblogged from tastes like

[aropride]

"never trust how you feel abt ur life after 9pm" is a spring & summer & fall rule. for winter it's never trust how u feel abt ur life after 4pm

[oldlune]

if the full moon loves you, why worry about the stars?

[oldlune]

meeting you was like listen to a song for the first time, and knowing it would be my favorite.

[oldlune]

"She has the moon in her mind, that's why stars spill off her lips.

[oldlune]

"the smell of rain and wet trees - the smell of the last days of November."

- Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years (trans. Philip Ó Ceallaigh)