This blog is mostly for my art and some occasional written matter. I like drawing, cheap trinkets, and the smell of old books.



I like this version better. TEAM SPIKES &lt;3
There is no wrong way to practice self care &lt;3
I&#8217;m so devoted to Chief, it&#8217;s not even funny.
What I did today in ACWW. Fishing with mah buddie Blaire &lt;3 (I&#8217;m sorry your house is ugly, nutlet!)
Drawing is hard you guise
-Doctor…? -RUN!
In which she learns she can walk under sunlight no more.
She would kill you, if she had to, for that is what they pay her for. In the unfortunate event of an encounter with her, it would comfort you to know she spends her earnings only on the most luxurious of cheese.
Oh, fuck.
The word &#8216;calla&#8217; is Greek for magnificent beauty. Apparently. So here are some tits to go with that.
Quick watercolor for today&#8217;s demo in class.

As a child, I’d read about epic adventures, tragic poems and love so true that it could burn cities with its power.

Solitary as I was, I thought that kind of love was some sort of obtainable superpower that— should I be deemed worthy of receiving it— would make my life whole. And in that understanding, it was obvious to me that I had to have pain, uncertainty, fear, occasional jealousy… and while those things didn’t define what love actually was (and they still don’t), I thought that was what made love beautiful. So real, so scary. Seizing your insides with full rawness.

Like Marianne Dashwood, I thought to myself: “Pathetic? To die for love? How can you say so? What could be more glorious?”, and I truly believed it. I still do.

Time went by, I grew older and started my very own ventures at loving people. I met pain up close, I felt raging jealousy take over me, I drifted away in that big ashen ocean of uncertainty and I never truly stopped being afraid. My heart hasn’t changed much, despite its (un)fortunate encounters, and I still place great value on experiencing the coarse, the profound.

But, I think, what makes love so magnificent is not the suffering, not the bruises, not the intense heart-wrenching sting inside of us. It’s our own willingness to go through that, our will to continue even when we know all those things are—and will be— involved.

It is a beautiful leap of, not faith, but awareness.
A black pit into which we dive because at the end of it, there is someone we care for.
And, in earnest stubbornness, we jump anyway.