Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love” -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin (1931-1932)
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

roma★

Origami Around
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

Kaledo Art

tannertan36
Cosmic Funnies

Product Placement
Claire Keane
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Peter Solarz

pixel skylines
todays bird
No title available
almost home

Discoholic 🪩
d e v o n
art blog(derogatory)
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

No title available

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia

seen from Italy

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Canada

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Iraq
@punkkspice
Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love” -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin (1931-1932)
I’ve decided that my 20s are actually age 25 - 35
Laura K Linke
CHAPPELL ROAN for TodaysCountry on Apple Music (March, 2025)
In light of some of the many things happening across the world this year, I thought this Pride Month needed a special illustration.
Happy Pride Month, may we all stay safe, look after each other, and keep painting our rainbows, no matter what. 🌈🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
readings: essays & articles
reassuring ghosts and haunted houses
fish recorded singing dawn chorus on reefs just like birds
what people around the world dream about
poet and philosopher david whyte on anger, forgiveness, and what maturity really means
oranges are orange, salmon are salmon
how memories persist where bodies and even brains do not
the avant-garde musical legacy of the moomins
the weight of our living: on hope, fire escapes, and visible desperation
disturbed minds and disruptive bodies
what is better ー a happy life or a meaningful one?
after my dad died, i started sending him emails. months later, someone wrote me back
on the igbo art of storytelling
what the caves are trying to tell us
promethean beasts — how animal uses of fire help illuminate human pyrocognition
the art of loving and losing female friends
on memorizing poetry
the ecological imagination of hayao miyazaki
reading in the age of constant distraction
holly warburton illustrates tender moments of love and light
romancing the fig: what one fruit can tell us about love, life and human civilization
mystery and birds: 5 ways to practice poetry
can a plant remember? this one seems to — here's the evidence
why female cannibals frighten and fascinate
when you give a tree an email adress
fear not — horror movies build community and emotional resilience
'do you think you're superior for not using AI in your work' thank you for asking! yes i do
Laura K Linke
Her name is Alma. She's my little girl.
Last night, she went to bed crying from hunger again. She whispered, “Daddy, I’m hungry…” And I had nothing to give her. Just silence. Just pain.
My name is Fayez, a father of three children, and we live in Gaza.
We are living under siege and starvation. The occupation blocks food and aid from reaching us. There’s no access to clean water, no electricity, and now we are facing a real famine. People especially children are dying from hunger.
I was injured in the war. But what hurts more is watching my children slowly waste away, while the world turns its face away.
💔 This is not just a message it's a desperate cry for help. From Gaza… to any human heart that still beats with compassion.
We don’t ask for luxury. We beg for basic survival: A meal. Clean water. A chance to live.
🙏 Please if you can donate. And if you can’t, share this message. Let someone, somewhere, hear us. Before it’s too late.
Please Donate now:👇
🔗 Donation Link
Please Reblog My Post :👇
📌 Post Link
Warsan Shire, from "For Women Who Are Difficult to Love"
Tish & Snooky Bellomo inside of their store "Manic Panic", the first punk boutique, 33 St. Marks Place, New York, 1977 🦇
NOT MY ASTARION BRAIN ROT CONTINUING CUS LIKE i just got the scene where he literally says he misses seeing his face and that like he wishes he knew what he looked like and i??? WANTED SO BADLY FOR IT TO BE AN OPTION TO DRAW HIM
LIKE IMAGINE STARING AT HIM ACROSS THE BONFIRE, watching the way the light dances across his pale skin. youve been through hard times and one of the things you've learned to get through it was to draw
at first, you loathed the fact that you had to paint rich people for mere couple pieces of gold when you knew your art was worth more than that. you loathed even more that they'd upturn their posh noses at you and scoff when, truly, they knew what a treasure your art was.
now, seeing astarion, the way his white hair seemed to almost form a halo around his head, reflecting the moonbeams that graced his body, watching as he crossed his legs and meditated; you knew that you didn't regret a single second of the trials and tribulations that led you to this point.
you could finally put this agonizing skill to use. you could draw him.
and so you scrounged up some paper, an ink well, a quill; all things you'd pocketed during your adventures with the rather willful vampire.
you sat there, nib of the quill scratching against the parchment.
your art was nothing compared to the paintings you'd done before; these were mere lines and ink blots. you wished you could truly show him how beautiful he was through water color or pastels. instead, trapped in a land you barely knew, all you could do for him was this.
he had his eyes closed, of course, so you drew them from memory. strikingly red, like rubies, like blood. you didn't forget his crow's feet; you loved the way they wrinkled when he laughed. you shaped his lips, soft but rough from years of bite and chew, and formed it into his infamous mischievous grin.
his hair always seemed unruly but, drawing it now, it felt like drawing gorgeous chaos; there was an order to it, the way the bangs fell across his forehead, the way the sides feathered in front of his ears and curled behind them.
when you stopped, you realised you'd drawn him over and over, across several pieces of parchment.
the way he frowned and his fangs would glance across his lips. the way he'd look confused and his eyebrows would furrow. the way he'd look longingly at the stars, mind distant and eyes almost empty, like he'd made so many wishes that were never granted by the cosmos.
you never liked tooting your own horn but you felt like you truly captured him.
so, you took your pieces of paper, all drawings of him, dozens of them, small and sketchy; you took it all and you sat beside him and spread them out in front of you.
it took him a second to realise you were there. he'd been letting his guard down recently, especially when you were on watch duty, and it took you laying your head across his shoulder for his eyes to flutter open.
he opened his mouth, like there had almost been a retort slipping off his tongue, but the sight of your drawings stopped him.
he let out a ragged breath, eyes flickering across all of them. his clawed hands hovered in the air, trembling, as if taking a hold of the drawings would make them crumble under his touch.
and perhaps, in his head, he really believed they would.
'darling,' he'd call you, his voice wet with unshed tears 'what's all of this?'
of course he'd still joke. it was how he coped with things. he joked to hide how he truly felt and, of course, you were always there to understand.
'it's you,' you answered a matter-of-factly, as if you hadn't just turned this vampires world upside down 'its you the way i see you.'
and that's what makes him crack. because maybe, since you were the one that drew all of it, you hadn't noticed. but he noticed.
he noticed all the love and devotion you spilled across the page. every single detail, every single stroke, it was all from love.
and as someone who had never been on the receiving end of it, astarion cracked and he hid his face into your neck and he cried.
they were soft sobs, almost unnoticeable. but he cried nonetheless.
he cried for his past that he'd lost under his sadistic master, he cried for his difficult present that seemed impossible to escape, and he cried for this hopeful future you seemed to lay out in front of him.
he cried because he didn't realise that he had this much hope left inside of him. because he didn't know what else to do in the face of your devotion.
you just sat there, humming and rubbing his back, ignoring the way his arm wrapped around your waist, claws digging into your skin as if you'd disappear in front of him if he didn't hold on to you as tightly as possible.
hades explaining that he’s the god of the dead, not the god of death
Thanatos explaining that he’s the god of death, not hades
Thanatos explaining that it applies to animals too
Poseidon explaining that he is the god of the seas and oceans
Zeus explaining why he can’t keep it in his pants
Hermes explaining why he gotta go fast
dionysus explaining why he’s Like That
All of these are so accurate it hurts
@nicadenic
Also Hermes, God of messengers
And Eris, Goddess of discord and chaos
sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four
Joni Mitchell “California” In Concert for the BBC, September 3, 1970.