The Bacchante, Gerome Jean-Leon, 1853
Claire Keane

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祝日 / Permanent Vacation

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The Bacchante, Gerome Jean-Leon, 1853
Jean Delville
Jean Delville (19 January 1867, Leuven – 19 January 1953, Forest, Brussels) was a Belgian symbolist painter, author, poet, polemicist, teacher, and Theosophist. Delville was the leading exponent of the Belgian Idealist movement in art during the 1890s. He held, throughout his life, the belief that art should be the expression of a higher spiritual truth and that it should be based on the principle of Ideal, or spiritual Beauty.
Photographer Captures the Poetic & Enigmatic Beauty of the Slovenian Forest
Slovenian photographer Filip Eremita has devoted his time in capturing the Slovenian forest and its majestic tranquility and wisdom. The poetic images are taken both during sunrise and sunset. Eremita showcases the beauty of the forest wrapped in morning mist as the sun peaks through its monumental trees. Although some of the images appear ominous, they also contain a peaceful and beautiful sensibility.
the tiniest of cracks manage to split, like wood, like branches splitting from a tree
I’ve been waiting, for these opening in my flesh to sprout. For petals to emerge from my rotting wounds, and begin to bind my skin back together. I’ve been longing, for these voids to be filled by growth, by the promise of tomorrow.
So stressed at the moment. Money. Work. Uni. Trying to keep myself moving in five different directions and making no progress whatsoever because I'm not trying hard enough and I'm not taking proper steps. I keep making excuses. But find it all so difficult when I'm suffering from this chronic exhaustion.
Zhaoming Wu 昭明武 (Chinese, b. 1955, Guangzhou, China) - Blooming Paintings: Oil on Canvas
To heal a wound you need to stop touching it.
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Mario de Biasi. Largo Camposanto. Milan, behind the Duomo. 1950
[::SemAp FB || SemAp::]
F L O R H A L M I S T
as each thought passes through my head i feel my skin beginning to crack. i am porcelain on the floor. slipped through shaking hands. muffled cries, seeping through fingers. my exterior is furrowed, hacked away and scarred. glued and sewn back together too many times to be whole any longer
sometimes, those certain words and sounds. those letters and vowels, images and scents, get right up underneath your skin and nails. squeeze in underneath your organs and prise open your bones.