And then I saw your face.
And then I saw your face.
summertime.i've realized i miss you most in the summer. when we were together, we belonged to the cold; trees would lose their leaves, winter winds would blow, but the summer was ours. it was a time when we could leave essays and exams behind and start dreaming. a time for stargazing and raindancing and treeclimbing. for the wild. for us.summertime. by jonathoncomfortreed
i feel so out of place. in the light of a bonfire or the wind of a highway, i find myself thinking: you would have loved this. and i get lost in memories of running through a subway station, reaching for lights across the dark ocean or swinging by a lake and dangling our feet in the stars.
this has always been a season of early sunrises and fast-moving clouds. of picking strawberries and meeting strangers. i thought june would last forever.
but it's august. and back then, whenever i drove home at midnight or walked across the city at dawn, you were by my side. you feel far away from me, and listening to your music doesn't bring you any closer. i mi
With a camera in my hands;
I love photography, and I always have. I strive to capture that "moment" and keep it forever.
And a pen behind my ear;
I'm a writer, focusing on short stories and poetry; I love to convey emotion with words.
A laptop in my bag;
I do a lot of experimentation with digital art and other technology. I like to learn new things.
And imagination in my heart.
Artistic expression comes to me like breathing. I couldn't live without it.
Art means a lot more to me than people think.
It's that reminder that there's something more. Something worth living for.
Something worth dreaming about.
There's only us.
Fiat luxAll the rivers run into the Sea;Fiat lux by ProvenParadox
Our cast reconvenes 'neath the ol' Bodhi tree:
Fisher King from the Sea-Otter's demesne;
The forgotten soldier who lives to have seen
Faust's night on the ridge and Walpurgis night's dream;
And fore-thinking bones from the dead fire-bringer.
Three dreamers watching, with the lighting's singer.
Yet, the Sea is not full;
The sun will not perish if you call its name;
But when the wind whispers yours, naught is the same.
Life's days will be shortened and joy will be ash;
angelShe is a musician.angel by hostofthemaze
Pale grey eyes that are half closed and blood shot most of the time.
Crimson colored hair, the kind you can only get out of a box, sways down to her frail hips,
But the incognito blonde peeks out at the roots.
She leans her skinny body against the cold brick wall like it's Home Base in a game of tag.
A cigarette hangs from her lips, a violin from her fingers.
They're melancholy tunes that she pulls from those strings,
But they harmonize with the clatter of coins being tossed in a jar.
They watch her like she's an angel.
They hear her like she's a prayer.
She sings about money, and love, and other seemingly empty things.
And when they ask her if she is trying to save the world she speaks,
"Why should I?
When has the world ever saved me?"
^ Deal with it. ;]
If you ask me, art is about a whole lot more than dropping into a gallery every now and then or downloading retro desktop wallpapers for your laptop. It’s about falling in love and falling apart. Creating and believing. It’s about your heart beating in your chest and maybe your eyes getting a little wet.
I love it all. Vintage photography and lomo editing. Typography. Classic literature. Philharmonic orchestra. Ballet and breakdancing. Graffiti. Watercolour and oil painting.
I don’t really think of myself as an artist. Just another human being a little lost in the world.
WanderingHere and ProvenParadox
Offering critiques —
— for anyone needing constructive feedback on their artwork. I love to help out any artists in need of advice and ideas, so here is your chance! Just ask.
Send a note or just leave a comment on my profile!