keine-lust-wanderlust
charlie
i hate my name so i call myself charlie.đ»21.
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âI always had a repulsive need to be something more than human. I felt very puny as a human. I thought, 'Fuck that. I want to be a superhuman.â
08.01.47 - â
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Amazing how weâre watching a bunch of white, racist fucks, storm the capitol building of the United States over the fact that they canât accept their loser of a President lost the election, is unfuckingbelivable. The transparency of minorities and people protesting for human rights and justice in the face of corruption, versus people are sore losers that canât accept defeat and know theyâre protected because theyâre white Americans, could not be more apparent.
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For everyone who don't know what is happening. Don't tell me they're just doing their job, the gonverment turned against its people and that's never gonna forgiven nor forgotten!
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Happening right now, July 2020Â
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When you write an amazing line and canât tell if youâre a genius or just accidentally plagiarized it from a book you read seven years ago:
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self portrait on a saturday afternoon
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This one is for you: For the person who never lets anyone see their demons or the battle they are fighting inside their head; for the person who gives everything to help those in need but does not seem to get the same care back; for the person who is hurting inside but hiding it with a smile on the outside even though what fills their nights are dark thoughts and cries; this one is for you, my love. I want you to know that I see you. I see right through the mask you are putting on every day and I am here to tell you that you can put it down. Drop it. Finally let those feelings out. It is okay. It is okay. I am here. I will not judge. I will support you as you heal in your own way.
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Gail Albert Halaban: Paris Views, courtesy of Edwynn Houk Gallery.
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You matter to me more than youâll ever feel. đ
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Fine Line as Penguin Book Covers
(insp)
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death doesnât understand why none of her friends like her anymore.
one day, she notices life staring at her from across the table but never looks her in the eyes. she thinks something is there, but they never touch.
but life gives her presents.
tiny little things. fragile creatures. she sends them to death, and they take a while to get to her. (sometimes they only take a few moments though. for some reason, this makes death sad.)
life sends death beautiful creatures, painted black and ivory and golden and purple. and death cries out of bittersweet joy, because when lifeâs gifts reach death, theyâre gone. (she wonders if itâs a blessing or a curse that every creature befalls the same fate.)
death learns to wait patiently for each new thing life sends her way.
sometimes life giggles and death catches herself blushing. she wants to get closer to life, but she knows what will happen if she does.
for millennia, life and death play a game of cat and mouse. life sends death beautifully wrapped presents and once death receives them, she places them in gorgeous boxes and gently lowers them into the ground, always leaving a single rose on top.
nothing changed about their exchange for millions of years.
until you came along.
and suddenly, everything was different.
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Nine Discourses on Commodus, 1963, Cy Twombly
Medium: crayon,oil,pencil,wax
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