to never, forever

[surqrised]

“Go and love someone exactly as they are. then, watch how they transform into the greatest truest version of themselves. when one feels seen and appreciated in their own essence, one is instantly empowered.”

— Wes Angelozzi

[bnmxfld]

“I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

[soft-lovely]

painting murals in an abandoned villa in tuscany, italy

[kafkasdiariies]

Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy | Mark Hintsa

[metamorphesque]

— I stopped going to therapy, Clementine von Radics

[text ID: I think I like my brain best / in a bar fight with my heart. / I think I like myself a little broken. / I’m ok if that makes me less loved. / I like poetry better than therapy anyway.]

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“I breathe alone until my dark is bright.”

— Theodore Roethke, from “The Dying Man,” Words for the Wind (Doubleday & Co., 1958)

[wrathofgnon]

“The classic spirit is the disinterested search for perfection; it is the love of clearness and reasonableness and self-control; it is, above all the love of permanence and of continuity. It asks of a work of art, not that it shall be novel or effective, but that it shall be fine and noble. It seeks not merely to express individuality or emotion but to express disciplined emotion and individuality restrained by law. It strives for the essential rather than the momentary —loves impersonality more than personality, and feels more power in the orderly succession of the hours and the seasons than in the violence of earthquake or storm. And it loves to steep itself in tradition. It would have each new work connect itself in the mind of him who sees it with all the noble and lovely works of the past, bringing them to his memory and making their beauty and charm a part of the beauty and charm of the work before him. It does not deny originality and individuality—they are as welcome as inevitable. It does not consider tradition as immutable or set rigid bound to invention.  But it desires that each new presentation of truth and beauty shall show us the old truth and the old beauty, seen only from a different angle and colored by a different medium. It wishes to add link by link to the chain of tradition, but it does not wish to break the chain.” — Kenyon Cox, The Classic Point of View, 1911

[cvbarroso]

Blessing of the Wheat Fields in Artois, Jules Breton, 1857.

[lionofchaeronea]

The Feast of St. John, Jules Breton, 1875

[aqua-regia009]

The Wounded Seagull (Detail), 1878 - Jules Breton

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

“Yes, I believe in you, absolutely, and that is what gives me the strength to live and wait, alone with you. That’s what I believe in. I have spoken to you freely, as I will always do from now on: there is nothing dark or troubled between us anymore. Nothing but a great and lucid love.”

— Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, January 12, 1950 [#125]

[givemearmstopraywith]

mary magdalene raised by angels by giovanni lanfranco (1616) / heaven is here by florence + the machine (2022)

[muresetivoire]

We live in worlds of monotony until we meet people who make it seem like wonder or chaos

[soft-lovely]

artemis aesthetics

[sorryforthebonyelbows]

Too much joy, I swear, is lost in our desperation to keep it.

Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

Jonathan Safran Foer

Madeline Miller, Circe

Richard Siken, Crush

“If only we’d stop trying to be happy we’d have a pretty good time.”

Edith Wharton

Slavoj Žižek

Richard Siken, Crush

[ritikajyala]

He asked me when I fell in love with him and I knew it sounded dramatic to say the moment I saw him, so I told him this story of my grandma who had Alzheimer's- she forgot her name and the words for fruit and food, she forgot her address and how to use the washroom, all her life lost to the disease. The only thing she remembered was her son's name and when that began to fade, the one thing she always remembered was that she loved him, even in illness, even in insanity. She saw this 6 foot 2 man with a scrubby beard and she didn't know him but she said she trusted him, she asked him to hold her hand when she died. When does memory end and love begin? All I know is- she loved him before she remembered him.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[prettyboyprettyboy]

The Angel of Death, a sculpture of a funeral gondola, in Venice. Photo taken by Paolo Monti in 1951.