๐™ธ๐š— ๐šƒ๐š‘๐šŽ ๐š…๐š’๐š™๐šŽ๐š›.

๐™ธ๐š— ๐šƒ๐š‘๐šŽ ๐š…๐š’๐š™๐šŽ๐š›.

The brightness of the morning sun knows no bounds. It simply increases. We'll follow the wind, which has no discernible direction.

The Viper has no knowledge of importance. These parallels are uncommon, but they are very consistent. It's unlikely that you'll be any of these elements.

The world's rationality is slim by the margins. Count the number of times the sun rises. Count the number of times the wind will strike you in the face. Count how many times the Viper has appeared in your life.

Is that searing still there or has it dissipated into your soul? Do you ever get up when the sun does? Do you know who the Viper is?

More Posts from Jolieflows and Others

2 years ago

Where do you start when you feel despondent? not the feeling about being alone. However, the only factor. nowhere to fit. being nothing in a world that is something.

When your voice falters, your heart beats in trembling clef rhythms; but, when you do feel stronger, why does it fade?

No depression. No isolation. a feeling of separation on the inside. How can you fight that sensation? There are no materials. no substances

My words are failing, and the pen is on the page. I'm eagerly awaiting the boomerang-like return of my hopes.

Where do I go now that I feel so alone?

Here. I came here. It was noted down.

From: Angie๐Ÿ’‹

To: Your self right now. It'll all be okay. ๐Ÿ–ค


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2 years ago

10/2โ€”

I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.

No longer mindful of how I come across to others.

I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.

My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.

How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?

Cannot reproduce these feelings.


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2 years ago

โ€” Soloโ€”

โ€” Soloโ€”
โ€” Soloโ€”

She felt most like herself between the break of dawn and the start of a new day. While passing her eyes quickly over the script in front of her, Angelina stuck the final sticky note in her journal. A strand of her platinum blonde hair was doodled and knotted by her free hand. Her schedule was as disorganized as her mind. Unorganized and unsure, but extremely feasible.

Angelina had never been happier as she planned the next few stages in her career. Her third person perspective story, was published in LIFE magazine last week. She had gained confidence in her acting abilities and was firmly established. But, the sheer satisfaction of being a writer, however, produced more dopamine than any Golden Globe, Oscar, or honor from an acting guild. Every action stunt the stunning actress ever performed was eclipsed by that sensation. She pushed her personal journal closer to herself while tugging at her bottom lip between her teeth.

She would have appeared insane to anyone who had been looking if they had. She may have been schizophrenic based on the way she gnawed on her lower lip when concentrating. As she recorded the racing ideas and epiphanies, her big eyes grew larger and more intense. Angelina's writing was inspired by the conviction that nothing in the outside world could ever equal to the apocalyptic feeling she experienced. She felt deeply theatrical in everything, and her writing technique reflected that.

What came next? The phrase "writers block" was never one Angelina like using. She really preferred to imagine her ideas as lightning strikes. Inconspicuous sparks and soft lightning. The third-person narrative of her article depicted the disasters that befell unfortunate people on the planet. Naturally, the general population believed Angelina was unaware of the world's calamities.

โ€œ๐‘Š๐’‰๐‘’๐‘› ๐‘ ๐‘œ๐‘š๐‘’๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘’'๐‘  ๐‘™๐‘–๐‘“๐‘’ ๐‘–๐‘  ๐‘๐‘’๐‘–๐‘›๐‘” ๐‘ข๐‘๐‘Ÿ๐‘œ๐‘œ๐‘ก๐‘’๐‘‘, ๐‘ก๐’‰๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘’ ๐‘–๐‘  ๐‘›๐‘’๐‘ฃ๐‘’๐‘Ÿ ๐‘ก๐‘œ๐‘œ ๐‘š๐‘ข๐‘๐’‰ ๐‘๐‘Ÿ๐‘ฆ๐‘–๐‘›๐‘”. ๐‘‡๐‘Ž๐‘˜๐‘’๐‘› ๐‘–๐‘› ๐‘“๐‘ข๐‘™๐‘™ ๐‘Ž๐‘›๐‘‘ ๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘ก๐’‰๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘ก ๐‘Ÿ๐‘’๐‘ ๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘ฃ๐‘Ž๐‘ก๐‘–๐‘œ๐‘›... ๐ผ๐‘› ๐‘ค๐’‰๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘ก ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘ก๐’‰๐‘’ ๐‘๐‘ฆ๐‘๐‘™๐‘’ ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘™๐‘–๐‘“๐‘’ ๐‘‘๐‘œ๐‘’๐‘  ๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘’ ๐‘“๐‘–๐‘ก?โ€

Based on her humanitarian travels, Angelina had written it from a distance. Additionally, she had written that from a faint sense of self-awareness. She nevertheless encountered criticism from the public.

With the pen in her hand, writing, crossing out, scribbling, she penned her bold perspectives. Her mind was struggling mightily to keep up as her black ink doused across the lined paper. Would she make this public? There was no answer. Maybe she would be the only one to see this project. Maybe she would publish a book every six years. Or maybe, just maybe, in the future she'd make the move from actress to author slowly but surely.

Stuck at her kitchen table in the upright posture. Her mind, reeling from the furious ideas, eyes fixed on the paper, and mouth slightly parted. The blue-eyed beauty interrupted her limited amount of focus to look around the untidy table for a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette, taking a dainty puff of nicotine, and exhaled deeply.

Just the sprinkling of morning sunlight; no music, lights, or TV. Beautiful sunshine was pouring through her blinds, illuminating various rooms in her opulent house. Serenely lovely; unquestionably a source of inspiration and incentive for Angelina to keep writing.

The bottom of her page was coated with ashes as she scrawled the final words. The majority of this piece of work was incoherent. But it had the qualities of an excellent phenomenon. The actress murmured softly as she ran her hand through her hair.

Angelina wasn't motivated to write because she wanted to become a well-known novelist. Knowing that perhaps her writing might reach someone was an art. Someone who required the words: โ€˜๐–๐ก๐ž๐ญ๐ก๐ž๐ซ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ'๐ซ๐ž ๐จ๐›๐ฌ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ž๐, ๐ฉ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐š๐ญ๐ž๐, ๐›๐ž๐š๐ญ๐ž๐งโ€” ๐ข๐ญ'๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฌ๐จ๐ฎ๐ฅ-๐œ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ค๐ž๐ž๐ฉ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ฏ๐ข๐ง๐ . ๐˜๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฏ๐ข๐ฏ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐๐š๐ฆ๐ง ๐Ÿ๐ฅ๐š๐ฆ๐ž๐ฌ.โ€™

Of course, Angelina might have tried her hand at writing romantic, adventure, or film noir-style stories. But how tightly can the soul grasp that?

She believed that romance could begin from anything, in her warped and wicked mind. The intense desire to triumph over such catastrophes could be perceived as romantic and exciting. Standing up from the chair, she looked at the morning sun. Her scripts, notes, and camera were all scattered across the table. Each and every one of Angelina's exploding personalities.


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3 years ago
Angelina Jolie, Oscars 2000
Angelina Jolie, Oscars 2000

Angelina Jolie, Oscars 2000

1 year ago

|| Saw it coming. Erwarte niemals etwas. Hoffnungen zerschlagen.


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2 years ago
Angelina Jolie Photographed By Victoria Brynner, 1990

Angelina Jolie photographed by Victoria Brynner, 1990

3 years ago

๐‘ฑ๐’‚๐’, 5๐’•๐’‰ 97โ€™

In love with someone looks like an adventure that never ends. It's as if you're walking a never-ending journey. Love sounds like a conqueror. Budding its way through life are two people who are making their lives about each other.

The word conquer keeps coming up in my writings, because there is a huge part of me that wants that to be, known as my love. Not that I want to conquer someone; rather that they conquer me. I'm always at the top of my game. I'd like to go down.

You have to be with me where the conversations are endless. That the silence is as loud as laughter. You need to wear the ringing dissonance of anger that comes only seconds after a heated argument. You must conquer me. Recite poetry with me. Cry with me. Laugh with me.


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3 years ago

โ€œIโ€™ve learned people are made of layers and sometimes you have to wait until the next one is revealed.โ€

โ€” @sixwordssayitall

3 years ago

Heeeeelllll yeaaaaah.

Don't ask me "wyd" i really just be in my room going insane and being a danger to myself

2 years ago

...๐‘๐ž๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐ข๐ฌ๐œ๐ž๐ง๐ญ ๐œ๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐œ๐ข๐ž๐ง๐œ๐ž.

It is tarmac, rather like coffee. Sprung like spring. Ventured on like a welcome mat, with both new and old seals.

It's there and opaque. Solo, besieged, vulnerable, and frequently on the verge of exploding. Perverse, facetious, and vague, but it's still there.

A memory recollection. An unofficial approach for formal subconscious.

Brazen, adjusted, and revisited thoughts. Blissfully naive. Gloriously dank and careless. Unfiltered like most waters, but continuously flowing

...๐‘๐ž๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐ข๐ฌ๐œ๐ž๐ง๐ญ ๐œ๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐œ๐ข๐ž๐ง๐œ๐ž.

The consciousness, however timorous, is nevertheless nostalgic.


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