Coming to terms with your mother's humanity
@death-born-aphrodite/@bitterl/Supernatural/8.46am on Instagram/Hailey Noecker/Fatima Aamer Bilal/Winterhats, literally from AO3/Mitski
susan sontag’s writing on writing, from her journals
Mother watching her girls dancing in the rains, she sees herself, and she sees something that she loves.
Dhaka, Bangladesh
Photo: Istiak Karim
ludovic de saint sernin fw24
Radio Romance by Mashrou' Leila
Photo by George Semerdjian
it’s so true that the greatest weapon against nihilism and existential despair is to find joy in the mundane and never stop chasing after love
My brother never touches his cricket bat with his feet. It will anger the gods within it, he says. The goalkeeper of my football team kisses the goalpost before the beginning of a match, a silent prayer to the deity within. My sister never puts her paintbrushes on the floor and my father holds his stethoscope with unmatched devotion. You see, the gods are what you want them to be, where you want them to be. In your mother’s lap, in your best friend’s hug, in the coffee you are almost addicted to, in the equipments of the gym you love working out in or in the books you bought but will never read. The gods are wherever you want them to be. The gods are wherever you need them to be.
blue, through kaye donachie’s reminiscent paintings.
The best of this life is trapped in the fabrics of my friends' couches, in my mothers sheets, in my childhood bedrooms curtains, and in every stitch sewn in my lovers shirts
she/her ▪︎ my mind; little organization
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