youthful decadence by casey childs, 2012, oil on linen
One Nice Bug Per Day
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Not today Justin
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Claire Keane
i don't do bad sauce passes
🪼
d e v o n
tumblr dot com
Cosimo Galluzzi

No title available
RMH

roma★

Origami Around
cherry valley forever

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
No title available
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Monterey Bay Aquarium

JBB: An Artblog!
seen from Türkiye

seen from Russia
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Singapore

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Switzerland

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia

seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from Singapore
@soyfueda
youthful decadence by casey childs, 2012, oil on linen
“Lonely is January; he is never quite there until he leaves. He is hanging limbo over your head and begging you not to let him fall. He is tying ropes to your fingers and waiting for you to move, to drop him into you. He is never quite there until he leaves, until he cuts your fingers off and slips down your walls. Longing is February; she is dipping herself into open fire and waiting for her eyes to light up. She is spitting stardust down your throat and telling you love tastes like sores and stomach acid. She wraps chains around your ankles and drags you after her, waits for you to run at her. You never do. Angry is March; he bruises you while trying to love you. He doesn’t know much about self love and he takes that out on you. He turns you stringed-puppet and makes you run for him, drags you around to take his falls. He doesn’t leave until you are skin and bones, he doesn’t leave until he takes too much of you to ever feel whole again. Shy is April; she smiles from across the room and never meets your eye. Sometimes you see her in improbable places, hiding in someone else’s eyes. She is soft and timid and she loves you this way. She is making space in her own skin for you, but you leave before you get a chance to love her back. She hangs around you like a ghost now. Seduction is May; she is dancing around you in a little black dress and daring you to touch her. You almost do. She is rose thighs and a waist that grows only thorns. She is spring flowers threatening to turn summer weeds. You hold her but she is never really yours. She drops her leaves into your hair and convinces you that a mess is beautiful. Lust is June; she kisses you like she’s trying to breathe right out of your lungs. She is summer sweat and high tops and she presses against you like trying to find a place under your skin. She teaches you that your hands can make fire out of human bodies, she teaches you about gunpowder blood. Heartache is July; he tells you he loves you when he needs to hear it back. He wants you to save him but he’s holding your head under water and wondering why you stopped breathing. He tastes like forest fires and the longest day of the year. He sticks to you for months and you can’t scratch him off your skin. Uncertainty is August; she shifts back and forth into your life like summer rain. She is open fires and waiting for you to burn yourself trying to hold her down. She meets you at a point in her life where she cannot love you, where she can only love herself. You understand this later, you understand that summer flames only take and never give anything back. Vanity is September, he turns your eyes in looking glasses that only point to him. He stands over your head and makes you beg for him, puts you on your knees for him. You believe you are nothing in his absence and so you drown yourself in him until you forget what its like to breathe in open air. Greedy is October; he is bones that never stop breaking. He dips his fingers into your heart and says he wants more. You crack open your spine for him and he finds a makeshift home in the debris you left behind. You carry him around inside you and he grabs onto anything that shows him love. Regret is November; she has her head in her hands and never stops screaming. She carries her ghosts at the back of her throat and finds lips to spit them into. Everything she sees is in black and white and she teaches you this way. She teaches you that nothing ever goes forgotten. She hides you like her biggest mistake, her only wrong turn somewhere along the way. Closure is December; she is soft and warm and holds you when you need it. She tells you she is going to leave eventually and you understand because you’ve loved her and lost her too many times to let it break you anymore. You’ve loved her and lost her until you stopped losing pieces of you every time she turned away. Her hands find their way around the back of your neck, and you let her. The next morning she packs her clothes and leaves without a sound, and you let her.”
— Reena B. | Twelve months and how they lived inside my body.
Audrey Hepburn with ballet coach Lucien Legrand, the first dancer and choreographer for the Paris Opera Ballet, at a dance rehearsal for her film Funny Face, Paris, France, 1956. Photographs by David Seymour. I love the first photo. The first three photos are new and rare. Recently sold at auction.
Grit: A Poetry Collection, Silas Denver Melvin
1998 Velvet Goldmine
Nancy Fouts
I coped by retreating and maybe I did become a mirror, a polished surface that shows nothing of what lies beneath.
Rebecca Solnit, from The Faraway Nearby (via luthienne)
a friendship compilation for @sarita-daniele:
Mary Oliver, from West Wind
“Try to remember it always, […] Remember that you and I made this journey, that we went together to a place where there was nowhere left to go.”
Jhumpa Lahiri, from The Namesake
“Strangely together to our doom we go.”
Rainer Maria Rilke, from Pietà
A Summer’s Tale (1996) dir. Éric Rohmer
“Here’s the truth: friendships between women are often the deepest and most profound love stories, but they are often discussed as if they are ancillary, “bonus” relationships to the truly important ones. Women’s friendships outlast jobs, parents, husbands, boyfriends, lovers, and, sometimes, children. […]
This was a snapshot of what my own deep friendships could lead to: transformation. I saw, on that afternoon, that it’s possible to transcend the limits of your skin in a friendship. That a friend can take you out of the boxes you’ve made for yourself and burn them up. This kind of friendship is not a frivolous connection, a supplementary relationship to the ones we’re taught and told are primary – spouses, children, parents. It is love. […]
Support, salvation, transformation, life: this is what women give to one another when they are true friends, soul friends,”
from Emily Rapp’s essay on the power of female friendship
Anna Swir, from A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, “The Same Inside,” tr. by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan
“…estás en mí como la música en la garganta del ruiseñor aunque no esté cantando.”
Dulce María Loynaz, from Absolute Solitude; “Poema LVII”
“Answers have too many anchors. Let’s grow up to be chain-cutters. Let’s keeping telling each other stories ‘til we know what’s true.”
Andrea Gibson, from “A Letter to Kelsey, Who Loves Jesus”
“Together we trace out the trail away from doom. There isn’t hope, there is a trail. I follow you.”
Richard Siken, from War of the Foxes
(x)
“…the world was made so that we could find each other in it.”
Jeanette Winterson, from Lighthousekeeping
“Don’t allow yourself to be imprisoned by any affection. Preserve your solitude. If the day ever comes when a real friendship is bestowed on you there will be no conflict between your inner solitude and this friendship. On the contrary, that is the infallible sign by which you will know it.”
Simone Weil, from First and Last Notebooks: Supernatural Knowledge
“You don’t meet the people you love, you recognize them.”
Anna Gavalda, from “Life, Only Better” (tr. Tina Kover)
The Essays of Montaigne, “On friendship”
Nikki Giovanni, from “Resignation”
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
“Everything scatters as the night wears on: / but you, don’t scatter, will you? / I think we could make this night last forever.”
Dan Chiasson, “Swifts” (Where’s the Moon, There’s the Moon, 2011)
Rowan Williams, Being Disciples
Ernest Biéler, Portraits à Grindelwald (detail), 1906
Lucy Keating, Dreamology
“Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable. I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my ways of praying, as you no doubt have yours. Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing. If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.”
Mary Oliver, “How I Go to the Woods”
As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty (Jonas Mekas, 2000)
to the person in the bell jar...
Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath’ / Vilhelm Hammershøi / Nicole Krauss, from ‘The History of Love’ / Ramon Casas / Joy Harjo, from ‘Speaking Tree’ / D S (saatchiart) / Fyodor Dostoevsky, from ‘The Idiot’ / Aleardo Terzi / Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Bell Jar’
buy me a coffee
Daria Kulikova Bolshoi Ballet Academy
Lagerfeld’s Studio 54 Versailles Party
“I have led a toothless life, he thought. A toothless life. I have never bitten into anything. I was waiting. I was reserving myself for later on—and I have just noticed that my teeth have gone.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre, The Age of Reason
You cannot make everyone think and feel as deeply as you do. This is your tragedy … because you understand them, and they do not understand you.
Daniel Saint