[originallandlockedmariner]

[ktcrbn]

Indeed ♥️

[nicholaschmidt]

[words-of-emotion]

Words of emotion

[laeliatenebrosa]

Anna Block

[ancoraunpianobi]

Zoe Ferrara

[questcequecestqueca]

Sequoiatree

[ourheatisgospel]

[la-morbida-macchina]

My hand up & down

[ancoraunpianobi]

Blood On Black Leather ph.

[arthuntblog]

Gerhard Richter (b. 1932) [Germany] — ‘Fuji’, 1996. Oil on Alucobond (37.5 x 29.2 cm).

[tenniswood]

A stone pathway leads through lush, tropical foliage towards an illuminated doorway. The building walls are constructed of rough-hewn stone, with wooden shutters visible on the upper floors. Find more inspiration at tenniswood.co.uk

[noxcordis-deactivated20250427]

Lidia Comini by Nicholas Fols

[sobcat]

when things have to change...

[sweettchaos]

[aprisora]

Halawa House designed by Egyptian architect Abdel Wahed-El Wakil Agami, Egypt, c. 1975

[originallandlockedmariner]

I write for me. No one else. Not for her. Not for them. Not for likes. In fact, the pieces that often resonate deepest in me get very little attention. I kinda like that. I realize many people write to help others, to entertain or to inform. All extremely valid. Perhaps that’s some of what my twaddle is about but it’s not the ‘why’. I was once told writing is like being pie-eyed and feeling like you need to puke. Maybe that what writing is? Downing big gulps of life until you can’t hold it in anymore and need to spew. Maybe. Maybe not? I just like the visual honestly.

I think my reason lies somewhere between Cormac McCarthy’s “I don’t know why I started writing. I don’t know why anybody does it. Maybe they’re bored, or failures at something else.” and Harper Lee’s insightful “Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself…It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless.” It’s like a tick or something. I’ll pull the car over and write, forego lunch and write, lay in bed and write until I can’t fight sleep anymore. My constant companion. As I’ve said before, umpteen times, most of my words are drivel. I have never ever been a very good or talented wordsmith. Most of what I write is pedestrian... mostly garbage actually. I prattle on, pretend that I’m witty and insightful, but honestly, it is nothing worthy of discussion. And yet, I write daily. My verbal diarrhea. Besides, I was once told that the woods would be very silent if no bird sang there except those that sang best. So, I write. Poorly, but I write nonetheless.

Obviously theres the question of why post then if it’s for me? Narcism? Bloated sense of self importance? Or perhaps just to have place to journal/keep/save my words? To file away and revisit when needed. Self Counseling. It’s more ‘blind leading the blind’ but cheaper than therapy. And maybe Tumblr needs twaddle to make real poets and writers shine that much more.

So who do I write for? I write for myself not others. I write for catharsis. I write for fun. I write to keep accountability. Alex Miller said it with beautiful succinctness, “I write because I love writing.” Period.

[gelatinatremolante]

Cold War (2018) dir. Pawel Pawlikowski