eu quero ser como as estrelas; queimar e brilhar até morrer.
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
we're not kids anymore.
taylor price
One Nice Bug Per Day
noise dept.

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blake kathryn
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Kiana Khansmith
Jules of Nature
will byers stan first human second
Claire Keane
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
KIROKAZE

Kaledo Art
todays bird
Cosimo Galluzzi

@theartofmadeline
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@prosaoupoesia
eu quero ser como as estrelas; queimar e brilhar até morrer.
“Tem coisa que a gente não fala, mas quer que o outro perceba.”
— Caio Fernando Abreu.
Vladimir Mayakovsky, from a letter featured in "Love in the Heart of Everything; The Correspondence between Vladimir Mayakovsky & Lili Brik, 1915-1930,"
querido, amado, brutalmente doce
só pra deixar claro: responsabilidade afetiva é sobre ser sincero e não recíproco
Never Date A Girl Who Writes
The girl who writes never appears alone. Although she looks lonely, she is not. All the characters that she created hover around her to fill the empty spaces of her life, there is also the entrance of all the worlds that she created because the real world was never enough. She creates life with her hands, her eyes are always crawling through reality looking for magic.
When she looks at you with those deeper and more mysterious eyes than the Mariana Trench, she not only sees you, but all the possibilities you carry. She will unravel each moment, seek and give meaning to each word. They will not be meetings, they will be studies. It won’t just be kisses, it will be experiences. You will be an experiment in progress.
And maybe the yoke of finding yourself in what she writes is heavy, because you will know how she really sees you, and for eternity, infinite people will see you only through her eyes. Your qualities will no longer belong to you, but to a character that she cooked and drew from the first day you met. And your defects … They will be there, sharp and raw. She will have no mercy by scratching them on paper. And, perhaps, your conscience is out of alignment, after all, are you the one told on paper, or did she invent something along the way to make the representation of you interesting?
Then, after feeling trapped by her, as spider webs came out of her hands forming the most intricate patterns, you would finally ask the most important question. The question that would haunt you around every corner of your brain. After all, does she love you made of flesh and blood or is she in love with you made of black ink on coated paper?
However, an even more cruel fate can offer anyone who falls into the discomfort of dating a girl who writes.
Remember all the moments you spent together, all the conversations about life and the universe, about love and death, all the festive dates, all the statements made in the dark … So, you find her name on a book cover in a bookstore, just by accident, you buy it. Whether the book is a collection of poems, or short stories, or an epic adventure. You take it home and open it, your eyes devour the pages as if you’ve never eaten before, because they look for you. The curiosity and vanity of being somehow described in her words are overwhelming. The pages are turned over and over and then not a shadow, not a moment. You find nothing.
You look astonished at those yellowed pages, which tell so much about her and nothing about you. At the end of all those years, with you wondering why it didn’t work, you realize, saddened, that you didn’t mean anything to her. And the emptiness of this finding is titanic. You were not her muse and she did not give you eternal life from her words. You don’t even know if you really existed for her, because whoever reads that book fifty years from now will never know that you’ve been part of her life.
So, would you risk eternal life under her terms or would you settle for eternal forgetfulness?
– Pandora
por amor a você eu ficava mas por amor a mim fui embora
“Sempre fui uma tímida muito ousada.”
— Clarice Lispector, no livro “Aprendendo a viver”. Rocco, 2004
“Sempre fui uma tímida muito ousada.”
— Clarice Lispector, no livro “Aprendendo a viver”. Rocco, 2004
Existem manhãs em que abrimos a janela, e temos a impressão de que o dia está nos esperando.
Charles Baudelaire
Eliane Brum, no livro “O olho da rua: uma repórter em busca da literatura da vida real”. Arquipélago Editorial, 2008 https://www.instagram.com/p/CeG6v7wuQJh/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Tudo aquilo em que ponho afeto fica mais rico e me devora.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Talvez não cheguei aonde planejei ir. Mas cheguei, sem querer, aonde meu coração queria chegar, sem que eu o soubesse.
Rubem Alves
“Enganam-se aqueles que pensam que erótico é o corpo. O corpo só é erótico pelos mundos que moram nele. A erótica não caminha segundo as direções da carne. Ela vive nos interstícios das palavras. Não existe amor que resista a um corpo vazio de fantasias. Um corpo vazio de fantasias é um instrumento mudo, do qual não sai melodia alguma.”
— Rubem Alves. (via comovocevive)
Para mim, beleza é uma pessoa que depois de uma hora que fala conosco fica muito mais bonita do que uma hora antes.
Serafin Bandini