i don’t think people understand how much of life is grief. not just people dying, but losing the version of yourself you thought you’d become. grieving the city you had to leave. the friends you lost not in argument, but in silence. the summer that will never come back. the feeling that maybe you peaked at 12 when you were reading books under the covers and believing in forever
the way this is genuinely life changing stuff for me
erin lecount, sweet fruit
Jesse Ball, The Divers' Game // Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights // Richard Siken, Crush // Yelena Moskovich, A Door Behind A Door // vidhic0re on Pinterest (I don't believe they post anywhere else!) // Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena // @lucidloving, "The Last Person to Know You" // Red – Same Disease // Hera Lindsay Bird, "Mirror Traps" // @lucidloving, "You Only Want to Hold My Hand, Right?"
Wikipedia / Image from pinterest / Machiavelli / George Santayana / Thucydides / Image from pinterest / Abba - Waterloo / J. M. Barrie - Peter Pan / Fibonacci spiral / Catherynne M. Valente
Bougie Cat & Ghost by Lane Brown
fuckkk dude just PLEASEEEE let me look back in anger. PLEASEEE come on man come on just once okay just let me look back in anger once…
a lot of things get on my nerves. im constantly annoyed. and i also have a deep love of humanity and the world but everything is really annoying
who taught you that suffering in silence was noble, and how would you shutting up have benefited them?
this also counts for all those times you kept your mouth shut and didn't complain because you were being polite, and people would gladly have changed things if you had just asked. your suffering was not noble. you do not get a cookie for it, you do not get a tally mark next to your soul's score for grinning and bearing it. your suffering serves no purpose. break free of it. you deserve comfort.
Michael A Davenport, 3,090 Degrees Fahrenheit (Oil on canvas, 2025)
30in x 48in
From the artist’s Inprnt:
“3,090 degrees Fahrenheit is the temperature at which sand becomes glass, in a process known as the Pilkington Process. This is not the temperature of burning; this is the temperature of becoming something.”
"she had the illusion of maturity and experience; but it was fatigue merely,"
~ Katherine Anne Porter, "Pale Horse, Pale Rider" from The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter
