1 day ago
That Is All
That is all.
Nothing
Not even a call
That is all
Nothing
Didn't even feel
The fall
Nothing
..
That is all.
That is all.
Nothing
Not even a call
That is all
Nothing
Didn't even feel
The fall
Nothing
..
That is all.
3 days ago
Parting Ways (The Day The Music Died)
The last note still ringing in his ears, the night’s events still swirling around in his head, he walks out of the door into the warm evening air. The entire atmosphere is one of joyous sadness. Emotions course through the air, giving it some sort of charge. The next morning shall be the last exchange of the drink of the fruit of passion, and yet the solemn first for him. Later tomorrow he knows, they all know, that they must part ways. They must all leave their oasis of comfort and security to dive again into the vast sea of reality, of conformity. Yet still they cherish it, hold on to it. Even in the last moments of such a magical night, they open their minds, their hearts, open their souls to each other and learn to love that which is there in what others have exposed. The chants of “…MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE” truly resound in not only everyone’s thoughts but in their utmost desires.
Late that night, lying in that same old bed for the last time, gazing up at the concrete ceiling. Finally, his thoughts allowed to sit and slowly filter out. Shock, insubordinate yet knowingly unjust anger. A few muttered words from the other side of the room, a brief agreement of opinions. Then silence. The hazy recollection of events over the past three weeks, the bittersweet insanity which so marked each and every day. The mistakes made, the friendships formed, the battles lost and won. And as all of this starts to settle down into a gentle murmur, he drifts off into sleep.
The next morning, torn from the warm embrace of his frail sheets, down to the circle, sips from the glass, toasts to a fallen comrade. Soon enough the group all progressed to go through their daily routines one final time. They returned to what they knew was the inevitable.
They were there, it was time to be rounded up and brought back to their respective lives. Tears were shed, last goodbyes, every single one of them joined as one united being, as one entity separate from their single selves. Each and every one of them will never leave the spot they were when they knew it was time they had to leave. Those who knew they could never return let fall the rains of their misery. Their true love for something so intangible yet so true and so real ripped apart their true selves and lovingly joined their true selves back together in an instant.
But, as inevitabilities go, by midday it was empty and silent. Once could almost feel on the air all that had occurred there so few hours ago. That evening, He finally lay in bed before sleep. All were dispersed from that place they cherished so dear, back in the true world but thinking of naught but what they had left behind.
And all at once, without warning, from places near and far came the sound of 300 voices: “This will be the day that I die…”
The last note still ringing in his ears, the night’s events still swirling around in his head, he walks out of the door into the warm evening air. The entire atmosphere is one of joyous sadness. Emotions course through the air, giving it some sort of charge. The next morning shall be the last exchange of the drink of the fruit of passion, and yet the solemn first for him. Later tomorrow he knows, they all know, that they must part ways. They must all leave their oasis of comfort and security to dive again into the vast sea of reality, of conformity. Yet still they cherish it, hold on to it. Even in the last moments of such a magical night, they open their minds, their hearts, open their souls to each other and learn to love that which is there in what others have exposed. The chants of “…MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE” truly resound in not only everyone’s thoughts but in their utmost desires.
Late that night, lying in that same old bed for the last time, gazing up at the concrete ceiling. Finally, his thoughts allowed to sit and slowly filter out. Shock, insubordinate yet knowingly unjust anger. A few muttered words from the other side of the room, a brief agreement of opinions. Then silence. The hazy recollection of events over the past three weeks, the bittersweet insanity which so marked each and every day. The mistakes made, the friendships formed, the battles lost and won. And as all of this starts to settle down into a gentle murmur, he drifts off into sleep.
The next morning, torn from the warm embrace of his frail sheets, down to the circle, sips from the glass, toasts to a fallen comrade. Soon enough the group all progressed to go through their daily routines one final time. They returned to what they knew was the inevitable.
They were there, it was time to be rounded up and brought back to their respective lives. Tears were shed, last goodbyes, every single one of them joined as one united being, as one entity separate from their single selves. Each and every one of them will never leave the spot they were when they knew it was time they had to leave. Those who knew they could never return let fall the rains of their misery. Their true love for something so intangible yet so true and so real ripped apart their true selves and lovingly joined their true selves back together in an instant.
But, as inevitabilities go, by midday it was empty and silent. Once could almost feel on the air all that had occurred there so few hours ago. That evening, He finally lay in bed before sleep. All were dispersed from that place they cherished so dear, back in the true world but thinking of naught but what they had left behind.
And all at once, without warning, from places near and far came the sound of 300 voices: “This will be the day that I die…”
🎨 Art has the incredible power to transform spaces and minds. Each brushstroke tells a story and each piece invites us to see the world through a different lens. Let’s celebrate the creativity that connects us all! #ArtInspiration #CreativeJourney
4 days ago
Czobel Béla 1906 La Plage De Fécamp - Bela Czobel
4 days ago
Recuperation
Recuperation: the process by which subcultural ideas and images become commodified and reincorporated into mainstream society
Today, recuperation is achieved through micro-aesthetics, memes, and online communities they stem from
Unlike the radical subcultures of yore, which had their own visual schema, language, and aesthetics, these digital scenes aren’t exactly subcultural.
They often promote a sort of political weakening.
5 days ago
Don't snow me
it's every fear that you dared to ignore
in a shiny black mercedes and walking up to your door
but if you don't like me anymore then why am i here
i can see millions of voices behind your every sneer
bury me underground
i will not make a sound
you're pushing my teeth in
you're making a scene again
you'll find yourself alone in the end.
it’s every hand that you declined
there's nothing left to do when i am stuck in mine
dropping a heart when it beats out of time
i need my indifference just to survive
bury me underground
i won't make a sound
you're pushing my teeth in
you're making a scene again
you'll find yourself alone, in the end.
do what it wants and bend till you break
my apathetic face is starting to ache
smiling at the walls proved too much to take
so we took to digging holes instead
bury me underground
i won't make a sound
you're pushing my teeth in
you're pushing my teeth in
you're making a scene again
you'll find yourself alone, in the end.
it's every fear that you dared to ignore
in a shiny black mercedes and walking up to your door
but if you don't like me anymore then why am i here
i can see millions of voices behind your every sneer
bury me underground
i will not make a sound
you're pushing my teeth in
you're making a scene again
you'll find yourself alone in the end.
it’s every hand that you declined
there's nothing left to do when i am stuck in mine
dropping a heart when it beats out of time
i need my indifference just to survive
bury me underground
i won't make a sound
you're pushing my teeth in
you're making a scene again
you'll find yourself alone, in the end.
do what it wants and bend till you break
my apathetic face is starting to ache
smiling at the walls proved too much to take
so we took to digging holes instead
bury me underground
i won't make a sound
you're pushing my teeth in
you're pushing my teeth in
you're making a scene again
you'll find yourself alone, in the end.
12 months ago
Celebrate Native American and Indigenous Heritage with The Met all year long.
Explore the rich culture and history of Native American and Indigenous communities through art, talks, and more. https://t.co/LJxOMG2yMx
Explore the rich culture and history of Native American and Indigenous communities through art, talks, and more. https://t.co/LJxOMG2yMx
Native American and Indigenous Heritage Month - The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Celebrate the rich culture and history of Native American and Indigenous communities through art, talks, and more.
https://t.co/LJxOMG2yMx
12 months ago
12 months ago
Nanny with a Child - Eva Gonzales
, genre: genre painting, style: Impressionism, gallery name: National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, US, tags: female-portraits, gardens-and-parks, children portraits, Lady, completition: 1878.
https://uploads2.wikiart.org/images/eva-gonzales/nanny-with-a-child.jpg