yasmina 🌟

she/her | taurus | blk | 22

[theforsakenprince]

Bet it feels good as fuckkk to rest your hand on the pommel of your sword when the newcomer steps a little too close to your lord who you’ve sworn to protect with your life

[adamsillard]

Georges

[to-orrr]

here are some more cats 🍓

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Written by Henry Scott Holland (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918) was Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford

[Guillaume Gris]

[butterflypeaflowertea]

lunar tomb by annie m. russell, 16 x 200 inches, 2026

[neshamama]

reggie burrows hodges, "in retrospect: regina," 2020, acrylic and pastel on linen

[metamorphesque]

The Lord of The Rings: The Return of The King, J.R.R Tolkien

[feral-ballad]

Aria Aber, from Hard Damage; “Operation Cyclone”

[metamorphesque]

   Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, The Hague, 21 July 1882

[text ID: Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me.]

[flowerytale]

Anne Carson, from The Glass Essay

[theoptia]

Simone de Beauvoir, from Diary of a Philosophy Student: Volume 1, 1926-27

Text ID: my solitude is an intoxication: I am, I'm in control, I love myself, and I scorn everything else.

[uaravsh]

Give me a daughter with your stubborn heart, or your even temper. Give our children your dark-bright eyes, or your enchanted smile. So that even when we are gone, the world will find within them all of the reasons why I loved you.

- Nizar Qabbani

[postcardswithoutanaddress]

" give me a house with tall windows and white chiffon curtains, a warm kitchen hearth and the home of your even warmer arms. a little garden where we plant flowers and fruits together, laughing on lazy sunny days and read together with your head resting in my lap. "

"'مجھے لمبے کھڑکیوں اور سفید شفان کے پردوں کے ساتھ ایک گھر، ایک گرم باورچی خانے کی چولہا اور آپ کے اس سے بھی زیادہ گرم بازوؤں کا گھر دیں۔ ایک چھوٹا سا باغ جہاں ہم پھول اور پھل اکٹھے لگاتے ہیں، سست دھوپ کے دنوں میں ہنستے ہیں اور کتابیں پڑھتے ہیں جبکی آپکا سر میرے گود میں ہو "

[metamorphesque]

The Pomegranate Trees, William Saroyan

[metamorphesque]

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit

[flowerytale]

Marguerite Duras, from The Easy Life

[serenehysteria]

i wonder if love will ever find me or if i’ll spend my whole life seeking out something that isn’t made for me.

searching amongst the ruins. looking from the mountains peak. suffocating at the bottom of the ocean trying to find a semblance of what i crave.

what i have always craved.

the only thing i have ever craved.

will ever have my heart broken?

will i ever break a heart?

do i want love knowing the risks of it going wrong?

knowing that if it were to end badly it would tear me apart?

cleave me in two like a poorly peeled orange?

force me apart like the executioners blade?

will it be swift?

like the guillotine came down on marie antoinette’s neck?

or will it butcher me apart like the dull axe that came down on margaret pole?

brutalising me, slashing my head from my body the way my heart will claw its way out of my chest. and there i would lay,

powerless to stop it.