Tag: this is beautiful

artthingy:

Stiles stops suddenly.
“Don’t move,” He says, panting. “You’re heavy and I have to look where we’re going.” Derek sways a little. “Oh god… I know you’re a mess right now, but try not moving!”
“Isn’t everything?” He hears himself ask.
“What?” And Stiles sounds like he genuinely has no idea what Derek is talking about, but he must be aware of it already. Derek is sure he knows.
“A mess.”

jeza-red:

This is a painting of Jacek Malczewski called simply ‘Death’ and it’s my favourite personification of death in any medium. 

She’s not creepy or scary, or sexy, or abstract. She is this thick woman with worn hands, dressed as normal, with a non-stylised scythe and pins in her hair: like a farmer’s wife that just came form the field and rests against the wall, catching some sun. She is not creeping about the dying one holding her scythe over their head, she is just there, calmly waiting her turn. 

This painting always fills me with peace and optimism when I think about death. She is just there, outside the window, in no hurry at all, sensible and down to earth. I can live with that.

darkearthsuggestions:

Homes are haunted by those they have held. Kind hearts leave soft spots where the sun wafts in on cloudy days, and harsh ones linger in cold that never leaves. Can you imagine then, how it feels, to step into the ancient temple? Crumbling walls, pillars of stone, what trace can you hold of who came before? Not just the fervent whispers, ‘I hope’ ‘I pray’ ‘i know’, worn into the air by a thousand breaths, but there at the altar, home of so much more– what heart does a god bear? What does it leave behind?

pillowfortposey:

“There’s this boy and he kicks his feet up on your couch in the stickiness of summertime and says, “What the fuck just happened?” and closes his eyes to the idea that he’s so much bigger than this place, this town, these people. He likes the way you come home with nettles in your hands, and in your hair. Once, he picked one out and showed you his eyes and told you that once upon a time they were the color of the sea, but it emptied out into his mother’s grave. you think you’re in love with the things he says, even if they aren’t half as poetic as you make them out to be.

There’s this boy and he’s grown into his hands and out of everything else – clothes, friends, family. You, you think, but don’t say it. His eyes make your chest feel like a warzone. You’re afraid to jinx this tenuous thing you have with him. He says you remind him of the woods, sometimes, when he’s in bed with you and he’s tired and he doesn’t know the difference between what’s coming out of his mouth and what’s going in. He says, “you’re worth more than this.” And you say, “so are you.” And he laughs himself to sleep.

There’s this boy and you hate thinking about how he wrings his hands. How he flinches away when Scott tries to touch him. How his eyes flicker in and out of existence like stars. Your mother used to call him a drowning ocean when she pointed him out to you. He was smaller then, acorn-small with legs that swung like pendulums. Hands like marbles. A deputy father. You think it wasn’t right then, but it is now.

There’s this boy and the first time you kissed him, it was in a bathroom stall at Target and it was the most unromantic thing you’ve ever thought up, but there was a tedious beauty in the way you both couldn’t help yourselves, couldn’t keep your hands from scrabbling under each other’s shirts. A mutual breaking point over the way things were. You think about fires in the summertime and the way he holds your hands and how they shake when you get into your first fight, so badly that you stop yelling at him. You think about how your mother probably knew all those days ago, in the hospital, that you were going to dream of marrying him sometimes, when your mind wandered.

There’s this boy and he lays you down in the forest and kisses the thoughts out of your head, the ghosts out of your mouth. Holds his fingers to your teeth when you shift, brushes over the ridge of your brow. You think he’s too good for you, but again, you don’t say it. Still, after all this time, you feel like hearing the words aloud make them more real. “I’m not scared away that easy, asshole.”

There’s this boy and you think you’re in love with him.”