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
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.

She sits by the window, pale as the underside of a silverleaf

and stares through the glass to the memories, in ruins

the unkind promises that never were

has she ever been happy?

every day, she wonders

Day in and day out

consigning it all to oblivion

but remembering everyone

rising from her burial ground

Reminiscing about autumns now past

how she felt when smelling baked bread for the first time

how that kitten made her feel weak in new places

how every detail of life fascinated her

moved her to tears

each time, deeply and inevitably, she’d die

again and again

in a constant suicide

Such a tiny and frail little death

It is an odd thing, she mused

that despair could stun her

that pain should be for the living

for her, full of blood still

Any and all times her hopes were dashed

 it was always an astonishment

Unfailingly, her heart was touched

and the woes, the hot rotted pains

those fleeting moments of bare translucency 

they remind her she’s been here before

this revolution of blossom and gloom

of feelings and honest tempests

 is her life

Through her open wound she is reborn

for as long as she throbs in anguish

she stops at nothing



This is how beautiful you are to me, didistarfish <3 Had you not been born, I would have drowned and withered a long time ago. Your tenderness has enabled me to feel and to love further than I ever thought possible (or healthy). Without knowing it, you have given me the best gift of all: you walk with me as we both learn how to love ourselves, thus allowing us to truly love others and to accept that we can be loved. I love you.