شکریہ

phaera. lover of the arts

[artist-millais]

The Matyr of the Solway, John Everett Millais

Medium: oil,canvas

https://www.wikiart.org/en/john-everett-millais/the-matyr-of-the-solway

[quotemadness]

“I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.”

— Warsan Shire

[kelogsloops]

with the tide

[fleurdulys]

Lago di Massaciuccoli - Guglielmo Amedeo Lori

1905

[fyp-psychology]

Don’t hold on to someone who’s leaving, otherwise you won’t meet the one who’s coming.

Carl Jung (via fyp-psychology)

[artist-tanner]

Concarneau, 1891, Henry Ossawa Tanner

[quotemadness]

The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.

Tucker Max (via quotemadness)

[quotemadness]

It’s unfortunate and I really wish I wouldn’t have to say this, but I really like human beings who have suffered. They’re kinder.

Emma Thompson (via quotemadness)

[plutua]

enchanting, there’s a mystery webbed within me and I seek into it with a mighty mind. I am blinded by the horrors of my depths, and the way unorthodox paradoxes meet and collide, the way we worship the divine in saturated white. maybe one day I will be able to rise to the light and conquer the universe within my frail hands that once touched earth in a begging cry. I am certain there is a point to this, to the meticulous hours of planning, and the repetitive cycles we birth and die in, the people we share and steal from. 

I just need to find it. one lifetime or the next, belief will guide me, and placebos will make the wrong, right, and the right, inevitable. 

— phaera

an oath to lovers. 

[art-rousseau]

Woman Carrying Wood, Theodore Rousseau

[plutua]

amidst the chaos she stands with crystals in her hands and a teal blue reflection bouncing off of her golden hair. the lapels of her suit are torn and bent inwards and her eyes are downcast, shape oval, narrow, shade opal, narcissistic. there is a glint of love lust hidden in between strands of hair that the woman brushes with care, and the galaxy swarms above in a threatening stance to burst in tune with her heart. 

she’ll succumb eventually and the stars will bow. for now they hang lifelessly in a yellow glimmer miles above. 

— phaera

[plutua]

she does not fear what she does not know, or does is? the contradiction is heavy and her breathes are shallow. she’s gripping his throat with vengeance and he does the same. he holds onto her tighter than she does onto him, and they claw at each others throats. the galaxy tilts before them and their ill fates collide like a pathetic eclipse, waiting to pass until they grow unaligned. their minds are twirling and spinning, hearts sore and sucked dry, blood pruning and growing viscous. he smiles.

“I want to hurt you.”

his travels. 

— phaera

[plutua]

the grabbing of shirts was a ritual known to his taste. the interior desires resided in the home of hope and one day they were being reached into and plucked. bruised little petals held between a pinch. rage was found in a bed of sheets, self-expression was an art done shown in the form of erotic essences that seeped through every ride of pleasure. they held on, his fingers digging into his sides, his anger evident, but his lust remained a looming haunting that possessed him every time he allowed for the carnal passions to be fulfilled.

“can I be your sin?”

his travels.

— phaera

[artist-constable]

Stratford Mill, 1820, John Constable

Medium: oil, canvas

[plutua]

she’s gathering the realms at her fingertips. the ecstasy laced poison coating her dipped fingers as she draws out an image purloined of innocence. her heart shatters. the multitude of rays seep out in a blazing fire, and he is set into her tide, drawn bound by a gravity he is only meant to stay in for so long. the paint splatters across his cheeks in an art of guilt, and adoration, and he accepts it as it sinks into his soul and intertwines between the bridges and the stars, catapulting him into his own world, one without her.

“won’t you anchor me?”

his travels.

— phaera

[claudemonet-art]

Saint-Lazare Station, Exterior View 1887

Claude Monet

[plutua]

at the height of all beauty, death isn’t dismayed, and is that not a message strong enough for the reverberating hearts of yours that pulse through skin and pinch at the translucent layering holding organs together? it is not a clear response to destruction, where an end meets an end, and an infinity is united with an eternity, much too similar, yet born of different costs. it is a grave contradiction, my love, and you must indulge in its secrets with salt stuck to your tongue, take it apart as you may will. don’t rattle yourself so hardly, after all, I use nonsense to hide the horridly. 

— phaera