poeslostchild

[poeslostchild]

‘You should have seen this coming,’ they said. I did see it coming. I saw it coming the way you see a train coming when you’re tied to the tracks.

Margaret Andrews

[poeslostchild]

There is something feeble and a little contemptible about a man who cannot face the perils of life without the help of comfortable myths.

Bertrand Russell, Human Society in Ethics and Politics (via philosophybits)

[poeslostchild]

Was du über dich selbst denkst ist viel wichtiger als das, was die anderen über dich denken.

Seneca (via schwierigephase)

[poeslostchild]

We're all so desperate to be understood, we forget to be understanding.

- Beau Taplin

[poeslostchild]

You have never loved me. You have only thought it pleasant to be in love with me.

- Henrik Ibsen, A Doll's House

[poeslostchild]

Tamino photographed by Alexander Popelier for part of “Knack Focus Generatie NU” series, August 2017

[poeslostchild]

"𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐘 [...] 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐧𝐨𝐭. 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐎𝐫 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞, ’𝐭𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰’𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐞’𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝: 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐝, 𝐀𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤.”

Richard II (Act II, Scene 2), William Shakespeare

#literature #drama #shakespeare #quotes #anxiety #richard ii

[poeslostchild]

"When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not."

-Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell

[poeslostchild]

夏っぽい

[poeslostchild]

“Some books are to be tasted

Others to be swallowed

And some few to be chewed and digested”

-Francis Bacon

[poeslostchild]

medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life.

but poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

[poeslostchild]

[poeslostchild]

Je ne savais pas encore que l'incompréhension va toujours plus loin que tout le savoir, plus loin que le génie, et que c'est toujours elle qui a le dernier mot.

Pseudo- Romain Gary ( Émile Ajar)

[poeslostchild]

You hear disheartening news every day about people collapsing, about people starving and perishing, about people who’d do anything for the own sake of their egomania, and about people who can’t do much to preserve chaos from unfurling wider. You get exhausted since you live among those who have barely seen hope and serenity, and you ponder that it’s absolutely unfortunate that you belong somewhere you abominate, in a place where you’re abashed for thinking, revolting, and feeling. You feel menaced and lonely. Your shielded bubble gets closer to outburst, your safe haven feels menaced, yet you often lean towards the positive, with the aim that someday maybe you will improve. Places. Places. Places. You yearn for places you consider harmless, and without noticing it, you end up missing out on the little things that may give your soul a certain shelter. You become regretful and downhearted, you deliberate over the certitude that you’re always meant to be alienated, and not only from the world but from your own mind. Confusion rips your brain apart and you surmise that your situation won’t get better anytime soon. Dull people, deceased people, newborns, ill people. Life, family, death, birth. Every thought of yours is outstretching in your mind, and the nearest you get to the truth, the more physically unwell you become. You overanalyze your depth. You create channels and tunnels in your nerves, leading questions, and answers to your main problematics. You come across books, philosophies, and theologies, hoping with all your heart that you will discover an answer. Your safe haven gets dim and weaker, your perception of yourself hoodwinks your mind and your soul, so you barely know who you are anymore. Your spirit was duped into the idea of never belonging anywhere. You start imploring the vital philosophy of death. You suppose and estimate that you’ll never set foot on any rejoinder, yet you pursue the scrutiny regardless. You feel dissociated. You misunderstand your nature and your nature misunderstands you. Nothing brings you shelter and you always sense peril coming your way. You think low of yourself and other people, and you dive into a tide of absolute misanthropy. And suddenly you’re on your deathbed. You’re recalling your memories and watching the long tape of your steady souvenirs. You feel empty. Hence, it comes back to you that all along you have been dragging your soul into a wormhole of denial and despair. You found out that many of the answers you sought were laid right in front of you, which sadly made you understand that thinking outside a box emprisons your spirit in the box of your mind. And your box was a profound drab hole, a vacant room infused with endless questions that, even if you dig deeper and deeper in the depth of your existence, which you were eventually fleeing, you couldn’t answer. The nearest time pushed you to death, the more you reaped repentance. You finally acknowledged that you have been painting the canvases of your life with nothing but a dreadful woe. You realized that you could’ve relished the little favorable gift of nature and life, that you could’ve crafted a warmer reality for yourself, and that you had flown from an unbearable reality to another which is rather gated and cold. You locked your soul up and you finally grasped that you would’ve been happier if you didn’t invest your time digging in the wrong hole. Repentance. You squeezed your bedsheets harder and fell into a deep Moana of conclusion. And you were yearning again, but this time for life and its breath, you longed for youth and health, and you shed remorseful tears. You haven’t cried in ages and you let it all out. You imagined yourself floating among bonny clouds, you imagined trees, birds, a sandy beach with its agreeable tide. Moreover, you were absorbed by an agreeable wave of truths, a comfortable silence, and a drastic realization. Thus, you contemplated your soul, and for the first time in decades, you felt free. You appeared to comprehend that if you took care of the flowers in your veins, your soul would’ve grown to become a booming festive garden. You thought about places, people. You noticed that you were undergoing a terrific life due to the fruition of existential drabbles and apprehensions. If only you had known it earlier, you pondered, however, something within your roots was longing for help the whole time. And you comprehended that you have never loved yourself at lengths. you appreciated yourself inasmuch as you could with the fair time left. You felt real and alive. You abruptly opened your eyes, the clouds outbursted and you were not on your deathbed anymore. You found yourself young and well, standing at the front door of your apartment, with groceries you’ve bought from the store in your hand. You understood that there isn’t much to care about and that if our purposes were to abide by fear and apprehensions of the future, we would’ve gone bankrupt by the age of 10, and died a couple of years later. And in a glimpse, you forgot about people, places, time, and your deathbed. You dropped groceries in your house then ran towards the nearest natural spot. you rested your body on the mellow greenish grass and listened to the melodious brays of nature. You bodied yourself from the disgraceful calamity of helpless wonder, and finally held yourself dear beneath the warm beams of your soul. you have finally become a content human. You haven’t felt any happier. You are a soul with a graceful body, you belong everywhere and you exist in everything. It was alright and valid to take all the time you needed to understand yourself. You felt your heart vibrating in harmony with the earth, your soul was a newborn of the world.

[poeslostchild]

Dark academia aesthetic pfp/icons

[poeslostchild]

you can justify anything if you do it poetically enough

-If We Were Villians

{dark academia men} 

[poeslostchild]

“...and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?”

Vincent van Gogh