#prosaic

[nero-narukami19]

---Random PicsArt playing, feat. one of my diary entries quote---

[theyuniversity]

The word prosaic refers to something ordinary, dull, or lacking imagination. 📄😐

It’s often used to describe everyday routines, tasks, or ideas that feel uninspired. But here’s the twist: even the prosaic can hold hidden beauty if we look closely. 🌿💡

A quiet morning coffee, a simple walk, or the rhythm of daily life may seem mundane—but they can become moments of reflection, creativity, and gratitude.

Life isn’t always grand; sometimes it’s the prosaic that teaches us to appreciate the small wonders around us. 🌸☕

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[howifeltabouthim]

. . . still a little dizzy from that discovery of sheer beauty which comes to the most prosaic men once in a while.

Agatha Christie, from The Golden Ball and Other Stories

[mushmallowy]

Sona Windows

Some gifs I made for me, @panic-and-chaos and @prosaiccat for artfight profiles for our sonas. The designs were made by @prosaiccat and the character names are Patiens (Mine), Paralax (@panic-and-chaos), And of course Prosaic (@prosaiccat)

[begapixels]

A derelict country house with original furnishing still in; apparently it was inhabited until august 1999.

[requindreams]

can you wax prosaic or just poetic... asking for a friend...

[tritemagicalsatire]

To be at service is to see the world we walk with the same feet, breathe the same air for we all struggle with the empty side of ourselves, bathe on the same sunlight, and fascinate ourselves with the same greed for living and sanity.

Service might act as some form of constraint, but, at the same time, it frees us. It also serves our own needs and wants... But before that, be sure of how you want to serve others before trying to touch their lives using your own abilities to give and to serve, and to gain the fruits of your efforts.

Be sure of what you want and what you need with Life.

—M.

[gripes-withthesun]

... and also of relationship anarchy

[text:

of queer friendships - Hritvika Lakhera

My best friend and I are not lovers/ are not not lovers;/ I seldom say it so plainly. See –/ I am a particular brand of a logical poet. I fell in love/ with categories. In my mind are cabinets and endless files. See –/ I understand the impulse to put a name to everything –/ save this.

My first lover wanted to marry me. I wanted to want it too. One night,/ we stared out through the window and she said, “I can see it clearly now –/ I want us to grow old together and sit like this/ beside each other and watch the outside from/ our rocking chairs –/ and I would be scared no more with you beside.” I laughed. I cracked a joke about/ some earlier happenstance. I was terrified./ “Forever” was the elephant in the dimly-lit corridor./ “Forever” hid beneath my bed and grabbed my leg at night if I got too comfortable.

I cannot be forever./ I hope to cease./ I hope to be somebody new/ every week./ We could be anything –/ don’t you see? –/ anything; anything at all,/ and then something more/ come next week./ My best friend and I –/ we are infinite;/ two orbits intertwined –/ bound to each –/ and each:/ boundless./ When I cease to be/ I bid my lovers goodbye/ and to my dearest friend I say,/ “I am being unmade but/ I will see you again/ the coming week”/ and meet her for the first time – again./ We aren’t lovers, but more –/ we are a weekly wednesday –/ boundless, infinite;/ at home.]