ever-pure:

LOOK AT THAT ECONOMY OF BRUSHSTROKE
YOU CAN SEE EVERY STROKE S/HE TOOK NOT ONE THING IS BLENDED
AND YOU CAN TELL EXACTLY WHAT THE SUBJECT IS AND WHAT THE SUBJECT IS DOING

ever-pure:

LOOK AT THAT ECONOMY OF BRUSHSTROKE

YOU CAN SEE EVERY STROKE S/HE TOOK NOT ONE THING IS BLENDED

AND YOU CAN TELL EXACTLY WHAT THE SUBJECT IS AND WHAT THE SUBJECT IS DOING

(Source: , via tam-taro)

artvevo:

nights spent wandering around laundromats and dairies for a photography assignment

(via shypetals)

"That’s the problem with putting others first; you’ve taught them you come second."

(via tat-art)

(Source: angiellehcim, via lightfirsttt)

palelysium:

Emma Roberts in Palo Alto (2013) directed by Gia Coppola

(via shypetals)

killapede:

some more outside drawings! I went to LA for a while

(via shypetals)

"

I’ve been feeling tired lately.
Tired enough to look at alternatives to living.
I weigh the options in my head in-between yawns.
Work or a bottle of pain relievers?
Leaving my bed or jumping off a bridge?
The thing of rope in the garage or what,
an education? A landlord to pay rent to?
Another day to fill?

What’s the point?

I say the words aloud, hoping they’ll make more sense.
Three syllables. Three clicks of the tongue.
What’s. The. Point?

I sigh.
Pull my clothes on.
Twist my fingers tightly into a ball.
I don’t know.

Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe this question will continue to circle
over and over and over and over again in my head, acting as the only marker that I am the same person in the same body, housing the same thoughts.

Six years old, I stared tearfully,
with head pressed to window,
at the blur of dead hills.
What’s the point? I asked.
Eight, I ran with face down,
sweating through warm streams
in the California heat,
catching frogs in-between my fingers.
What’s the point? my feet splashed.
Thirteen, wiping away tears in a public bathroom stall,
trying to press myself deep into the bus seat
to keep from being seen.
What’s the point? I cursed.
Fifteen, thinking I understood love songs
as my lips learned about kissing
behind the community center.
What’s the point? I giggled.
Sixteen, scratching his name out of my desk
the rest of the semester.
What’s the point? I spat.
Eighteen, all moved in,
listening to my friends
sloppily clink their glasses together
as I lay in the dark,
feeling lonelier than ever before.
What’s the point? I shook.
Twenty-one, no longer amused,
feeling too old to not
have these things figured out
and too young to be gentle on myself.

What’s the point?
I don’t know.

But a part of me
(that has perhaps existed longer than my questioning)
says,

No one knows.
We are all here to find out.

"

Making My Own Point | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)