reflectionsinphotographs
just vibes
19 ~ pepper ~ she/her ~ main blog: @talltreesandtallbuildings ~ a collection of aesthetic things
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I LIED the new blog does have a name now it’s @undertheoakes please please go follow me on there if you enjoy the content i’ve been posting here
hey besties I’m making a completely different blog to post my art on a main blog and all that shit but I don’t have any idea what I’m gonna name it yet so I hope you all hunt me back down later
see youuuuu
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hey besties I’m making a completely different blog to post my art on a main blog and all that shit but I don’t have any idea what I'm gonna name it yet so I hope you all hunt me back down later
see youuuuu
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I FORGOT I CAN PUT MY POETRY ON HERE
Anyway I’ve developed feelings for someone I shouldn’t have here’s that for you:
(and as usual, the dashes are not for any stylistic reasons it’s just so Tumblr will let me properly space out my stanzas because they HATE ME)
Sweet Death
Their lips taste like ecstasy.
Their voice sounds like music.
Their hands feel like silk.
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I utter a thousand cliches,
Whispered under my breath,
Earnest as a dying man’s prayer.
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Their lips taste cool, a breezy summer night.
Their voice sounds like a siren, calling me towards sweet death.
Their hands feel like a pull home.
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They are Heaven and Hell.
Indescribable beauty and unimaginable pain.
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Something about them is different
In a way that I cannot capture
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Except through a thousand cliches
Scripted in breathless reverence.
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Hoping,
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Praying,
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Longing.
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But there is always something to staunch my blessing.
The fear of the death that lingers on their lips
Pulling me away
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I cannot escape the current they’ve caught me in.
There is no use in trying to swim against the tide.
So I will let it drag me down
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farther,
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farther,
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farther,
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Until every ounce of oxygen in my lungs
Is replaced by the sweet death
They sing to me
#poetry#queer poetry#lgbtq#queer#hozier#(< bc he inspires all of this)#religious imagery#religious poetry#love#writing#original writing
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why is it that every event that I photograph for work has to be held in the UGLIEST ROOM IN THE WHOLE SCHOOL
like, they really said “let me give her this weird bright yellow background, and super shit lighting” THERE ARE A THOUSAND BETTER PLACES I HATE IT HERE
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okay so, a fun fact about me: I used to write a lot of songs (like, 2020-2021ish) because I was fully dead set on becoming a famous singer (my singing voice is mediocre at best)
and I've been looking through some of the old songs because I'm seeing what material I can recycle into poems (because I may not be able to sing, but I sure as hell can write) and HOLY SHIT I WAS SO MENTALLY UNWELL
like, I’m anxious pretty much all the time now, but at least I'm not constantly maladaptive daydreaming, dissociating, and basically living my entire life inside of my head (but still somehow making it everybody else’s problem)
senior year me needed some serious help and she fully thought that this was just quirky behavior lmaoooo
#and yes I'm in therapy now#and on medication#so that helps#music#poetry#writing#mental health#retrospect
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I'm not saying that I'm going to do a photography series showcasing cross jewelry as a shackle/burden... but yeah that’s what I'm saying I want to do that
#(was the cross ever really celebratory anyway?)#(I bet for Jesus it's traumatic)#religious trauma#photography
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Hell Followed With Us, Andrew Joseph White
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does anyone have that unsettling oil painting of a dark window with a sheet leading out into the darkness? it did the rounds on tumblr a while ago and i need itttt
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Origin story behind this one: my parents sent me info about a local writing contest in the town they live in, and the prompt for the contest was “Hometown Memories” (and if you know the town: keep it to yourself and don’t dox me, please).
So my dumbass was like “oh yeah, let’s take that casual, wholesome prompt and write about returning to my childhood church after (presumably) years of therapy to heal from my religious trauma, much of which was acquired within said childhood church! Surely this is what they were looking for when they created this prompt! I’m not taking it too far at all!”
Anyway, I can’t submit it for the contest because I don’t want my parents reading it, so I thought I’d send it into the Tumblr void. Hope you enjoy <3
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The minute I turned into the parking lot, a debilitating wave of nostalgia hit me. It made my heart hurt, and I parked quickly, stepping out of my car and looking up at the building in front of me in a dazed reverie.
The church was smaller than I remembered it (though I guess the last time I was here I was much smaller). A thousand memories danced around me, and I was only standing in the parking lot.
Irrational fear gripped my heart as I slowly walked towards the front door, as if the moment I stepped inside, I would erupt into flames. As if I would be struck down the second I crossed the threshold.
How dare I return to the Lord’s house, after all these years?
And yet, as I opened the doors and stepped inside, there was no fire. There was no grand disaster to end me, to send me down to Hell where I surely belonged. There was only the sound of the door closing behind me, and my heavy breathing to cut through the silence.
The church was empty, like I hoped it would be. I didn’t want anyone to be here right now. They didn’t need to see me like this, cowering in the chapel doorway as if some invisible monster was around the corner.
Slowly, tentatively, I took my hand off the doorknob.
I began to walk, with fearful trepidation.
My mind shut down, letting muscle memory guide me into the chapel.
To say that it looked exactly the same as I remembered it would be overstating my memory; it wasn’t exact. But it was similar enough to make me choke back a wave of nausea.
I found myself wandering down the aisle, feeling like a ghost stuck between two worlds. There was an ocean between me and the girl I was last time I was here, and I could hardly even begin to process the crushing onslaught of memories that came rushing back to me.
The whole room glowed with an otherworldly familiarity; comforting, but tainted with something else, something darker. The high chapel ceilings were painted white, accenting the intricate stained-glass windows that lined the walls. The carpets were the same shade of weird gray-green that I remembered, matching the cushions on the pews so perfectly it was almost hard to separate them. And the pews; I found myself unconsciously running a hand along the sides, tracing them as I made my way towards the front of the room.
I was already blinking back tears, and I hadn’t even gotten to the altar. My feet stopped me before I could, and I slipped into one of the pews, welcoming the familiar embrace of the hard wood and scratchy upholstery. And for a moment, everything was still.
That’s when I began to cry.
The air around me felt thick, and my tears fell with the weight of every sin I had committed. Just because I felt no remorse for my actions didn’t mean that the fear of Hell hadn’t been drilled into me, hadn’t burrowed itself into the very fiber of my being, as if to ensure that I would never be free from the cross I was shackled to at birth.
Yet, as I cried, I felt the building welcome me. Despite every disdainful remark, every venom-soaked platitude I had spit at the church, it still somehow felt like coming home.
And in that moment, I had lived and died a thousand times in that room.
I am not sorry. I refuse to apologize for who I am.
I shouted inside my mind, and the building listened. An air of comfort seeped into my skin, relaxing the muscles that had been tense since I arrived. I might’ve been praying, but at that point I wasn’t sure. If I was, I don’t think it was to God. I think it was to every iteration of myself that walked within these walls. Every bright-eyed kid who was given more pressure than they ever deserved, every child who knelt at that altar in a casual state of anxiety.
If God was watching me, he knew. He saw the mix of anger and sorrow and fear in my mind. He didn’t need me to tell him how his disciples wronged me. He’d seen it all, and that would have to be enough.
The sound of my sobs echoed around the room, and I almost worried that somebody passing by was going to hear me. That they were going to come inside to find an adult woman, weeping in an empty church.
Stained-glass filtered light settled like a blanket over me, and slowly my tears dried up. By the end, I was crying more in emotional release than in sorrow.
I understood that the cocktail of emotions in my mind would never fully be gone. Just as the fear of Hell had burrowed into my bones, so too had the melancholy that tainted my memories. Blissful ignorance was something I’d long since grown out of, and I couldn’t ignore the actions of the institutional church any longer. What once brought me so much joy now delivered only feelings of confusion.
And yet.
Sitting in the church I’d grown up in, the confusion was quieter, as though the ache in my chest was momentarily subdued. I felt something running through my bloodstream, and it took me a moment to even recognize the feeling. But eventually, I figured it out.
Peace.
It had been so long.
#while it isn't required for reading#I highly recommend listening to Sun-Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain as you do#it hurts my soul in a good way#religious trauma#religious imagery#childhood#christianity#religion#florence and the machine#ethel cain#mother cain#writing#narrative writing#imagery#short story#original writing#imagery practice
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When Fleabag said "I'm not obsessed with sex. I just can't stop thinking about it. The performance of it. The awkwardness of it. The drama of it. The moment you realize someone wants your body. Not so much the feeling of it"
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constantly thinking about when fleabag said “I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear EVERY morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”
#I was SOBBING by the end of her monologue in the confession booth#(and then I was violently horny but we don't need to talk about that)
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"I think you know how to love better than any of us. That's why you find it all so painful."
Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Fleabag
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I'm realizing more recently that I really do love photography as a medium for artistic expression.
Like, my goal in the past has been to take photos that are clear and in focus and show the subject I'm photographing, with no greater emotion behind it. And I still think that’s great - I want to go into concert photography, most of the time that’s the main goal.
However, more recently I’ve become overcome with the desire to not just take photos but to make art; to take photos that showcase my emotions and represent something, photos that make you feel something when you look at them.
And idk if I’ve achieved that, but it’s definitely interesting to see the way my goals and perception of photography have shifted over the last couple of months. Not sure if it’s because I’m actually taking a formal photography class now, or because I live in a cool place now, or because I’m back in therapy, but whatever the cause is, I’m having fun with it.
#photography#photographer#art#artistic expression#I'm thinkin things#also I'm very tired today#and kinda sad#so I think I'm gonna go wander around campus with a camera
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Ethel Cain, photographed by Silken Weinberg for WMagazine
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I feel like fall is the season for seeing.
Like, looking around at things that you look at every day, but actually seeing them this time. Suddenly everything is magical, everything has an air of mysticism about it, like the veil between reality and whatever lies beyond is just slightly thinner. The wind blows your hair over your shoulder gently, like an affectionate hand reaching out to comfort you. The leaves smile as they fall, knowing that soon, everything will be renewed.
#I love fall#can you tell?#witchy#fall#fall vibes#aesthetic#fall aesthetic#witchy aesthetic#witch#halloween#mysterycore
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artists who make music with religious overtones, and what their music makes me want to do (part 1 and probably only)
Florence and the Machine: run into the woods and join a coven it makes me feel so powerful
Hozier: lay down in the dirt and be swallowed by the dirt why does his music make me want to become one with the Earth send help
Ethel Cain: this music doesn’t make me want to join a cult (because I don’t want to join a cult, that would be bad) but her music FEELS like joining a cult I am in a cult now welcome to the Daughters of Cain
and I love them all they’re incredible
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there is a thin line between catharsis and obsession, and oh my dear, you walk it so well
#me @ myself#trying to decide if I wanna make this blog about religion/religious trauma#or if that would be aestheticizing it to an unhealthy degree#at what point does cathartic art become obsessive romanticization#religious trauma
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