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.
stitch.dhe remembers the day he was walking around thrift stores and boughtstitch.d by Unrequited-Ivy
felt hearts, which were laid on a shelf, like cradled babies.
and he kept one wrapped in his arms, till he could lay it on the counter with a ten dollar bill
tucked neatly between his fingers.
and for the first time, in a long time. He owned love.
they sat there and counted the bleak minutes till they could finally decide if
the other was a monster.
somehow, I doubt they came to an answer.
the first time he ever smiled, it was because his heart finally stopped aching,
his wooden lips splintered into shards at the corners of his mouth, but it didn't hurt.
and he won't stop smiling, because he's afraid if he stops, he won't smile again.
(long, long ago, in a faraway land)
someone once told him that he was a depressing person.
"maybe I like being sad," he whispers.
'why do you refuse to be happy?' someone asks him, and it's a mixture of disappointment and anger,
'when I'm with you, it just rubs off on me
Too Far GoneThe wind raises goosebumps along his bare skin. It dances between his fingers, tugs at his hair, pushes him forward. It's too cold to be doing this, he knows. But he can't see the snow and not think of her. He clutches numbly to the guitar with one hand, stretching his other arm out into the wind. The magic's still out there somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it.Too Far Gone by cherrichan13
When he was seven, still learning his notes, he would sit by the fire and clumsily pluck at the strings of the guitar. He'd stare into the flickering light until he heard her whisper behind him, "It's like magic." Then he'd feel her warm breath on his ear and hear the words, "Let's go outside."
She became synonymous with the bitter taste of winter air, the lingering sound of guitar, the magic.
Her favorite activity used to be pulling fallen pinecones out from underneath their blankets of snow. The two of them would roll them around in the powder and marvel at the tracks they left behind; they would throw the broke
^ 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!