by james decent

@theartofmadeline
NASA

ellievsbear

oozey mess
hello vonnie
One Nice Bug Per Day

Origami Around

Kaledo Art
$LAYYYTER
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
RMH

Product Placement
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Mike Driver
styofa doing anything
art blog(derogatory)
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
trying on a metaphor
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
cherry valley forever

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@sohpei
by james decent

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"It is really only because we know so well how to explain it that this attitude does not seem to us pathological"
Freud on the difference between mourning and melancholia
Anne Carson on Parkinson's
So,​ your life. There it is before you – possibly a road, a ribbon, a dotted line, a map – let’s say you’re 25, then you make some decisions, do things, have setbacks, have triumphs, become someone, a bus driver, a professor of Indo-European linguistics, a pirate, a cosmetologist, years pass, maybe in a family maybe not, maybe happy maybe not, then one day you wake up and you’re seventy. Looking ahead you see a black doorway. You begin to notice the black doorway is always there, at the edge, whether you look at it or not. Most moments contain it, most moments have a sort of sediment of black doorway at the bottom of the glass. You wonder if other people are seeing it too. You ask them. They say no. You ask why. No one can tell you.
A minute ago you were 25. Then you went ahead getting the life you want. One day you looked back from 25 to now and there it is, the doorway, black, waiting.
So,​ your life. There it is before you – possibly a road, a ribbon, a dotted line, a map – let’s say you’re...
Just as a big pot can be grasped more easily by its little handle than by its large belly, so I considered that in the little soul of the plant I had found a little handle by which faith in the greatest things could be more easily hoisted to the pedestal. - Fechner
Each spring, hundreds of millions of baby eels swarm the waterways of coastal Maine. Soaring global demand incited an era of jackpot payouts

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sylvia plath's final poem
still thinking about this months after the eclipse...
The ethics of fiction, for Rooney, is very much tied to the ethics of living. “When you inhabit a time of enormous historic crises, and you’re concerned about it,” she said, “how do you justify to yourself that the thing to which you’ve chosen to dedicate your life is making up fake people who have fake love affairs with each other?”

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experiencing infidelity sucks
(surprise surprise)
I've spent the last year trying to wrestle with the following questions:
Would it still have happened if I was better? (better looking certainly, but what about better at making you happy, better at making myself happy, better at all the things I think I'm shitty at and all the ways I've ever felt unlovable)
Would it still have happened if you were better? (better at thinking of me when I wasn't around, better at listening to me when I was around, better at being honest, better at telling me how your day was going)
And there are (again, unsurprisingly) no answers to be found! Even after months of all this searching. I've turned over every last rock in this dirty old head of mine.
Now you've gone and done it again, and I have no idea how in the world I am supposed to ever feel good again. This is not a hyperbole. I tried to trust you again and all I've ended up with are these stupid fucking questions again.
(...) it’s because concepts in poetry have soft, porous edges. They bleed into one another: when you talk about death, you are always also, even if to a minimal extent, talking about countless other things. - https://aeon.co/essays/in-poetry-clarity-comes-through-ambiguity-not-definitions
And ultimately, I do think rage is a measure of tenderness.
https://bulletin.hds.harvard.edu/what-can-ancient-spiritual-poetry-teach-us-about-living/

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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i was walking around late at night last night looking at cars go by, and i thought to myself how spooky they would have looked to people from a pre-industrial world. loud, clunky, shiny; with lights that beamed out like eyes
zion
Children’s books don’t need to be only about children.