(Source: daggdroppe, via smellsjustlikecouture)
If ever, you sat alone in the abyss of a friendly sky of twilight, the night air upon your warm cheeks and the mildew of the atmosphere so close that it is tangible with a touch, you will remember feeling the weight of your inner sanctity calling out in relief. You are sovereign in that passing without a care for the world.
There you stand in the process of the universe perhaps alone. Perhaps with the thought of passion and adoration close to your affections. And it is there in that reflection, you realize basking in the wonders of the universe alone with a mere thought of romance will not complete you.
Because you realize you are standing there alone.
(via misscocochanel)
(via misswallflower)
I’m quite unsure of it since it is very spastic.
1. Learning a new language makes me happy.
2. I love book stores. There’s something about buying books (that sometimes I don’t end up reading but it’s comforting seeing it sit prettily on my shelf).
3. I also love stationery shops. Ok, psychologically speaking, it’s probably because I think I can’t afford anything better and feel like I’m splurging a lot but I could spend hours in it picking out the perfect notebook/pen.
4. Recycling. And not as the “SAVE THE WORLD” recycle but as in the “I save boxes, plastics, wrapping paper, ribbons” because I want to and you never know what you can do with them. I also keep boxes around so I can learn how to make them myself. (It does provide for temporary satisfaction.)
5. I still love oil painting even though I haven’t touched a canvas in 4 years or so. I’m still at ease spending the afternoon painting and I’ll always love waiting a day for my paint to dry and smiling at the final piece.
6. I make a habit of ripping out pages from Vogue (and even though I cry everytime I do so) I make sure I get them in a series and collect them into a clipping
7. I like pretty things. I do. Clothes and shoes are included. Although I’m horrible with bags. I can’t seem to change them very often.
8. Baking. I don’t know why but I love it.
9. I haven’t listened to music in a while… I’m so far behind on the music scene. I am a music hermit.
10. I’m usually the last to conform. I suppose it’s because I hate adhering to change… and I’m just stubborn like that. I think maybe it’s because I’m terrified that things won’t go my way. No, not think. I am terrified of change.
11. Hearing advice and realizing the things my friends say are unexpectedly surprising. And it surprises me every time… in the good kind of way.
My mother is usually the one who makes poached pears. I have a photo of her in an old family album, holding a platter of them. By the length of her hair, I’m guessing that the year was 1984. My father must have snapped the picture as they were leaving for a holiday party. That was the kind of thing he liked to do. She’s standing in the wood-paneled den of the house we lived in until I was 13, wearing what appears to be a sand-colored fur jacket. She must have curled her hair with hot rollers, because it sits on her shoulders in soft loops, and where she’s pinned it back above her left ear, you can see the sparkle of her earring. Her eyes are lined in dark pencil, and her lipstick is as red and glossy as a Robert Palmer girl’s. She’s staring at something just beyond the camera, probably waiting for the flash to go off. The platter is in front of her chest, tilted slightly downward, so you can see the pears in neat rows. For her, that’s clearly what the photo is about: a dozen pears standing upright, each carefully peeled, poached, painted in dark chocolate, and topped with a sprig of fresh holly leaves. I like that for my father, the photo is clearly about her.
I had never poached a pear until yesterday. There’s no real reason - though I guess it’s that, for many years of my life, poached pears were a grown-up thing. They were the dessert that my mother would make for parties, or for dinners with guests who arrived after I’d gone to bed. The fact that the pears weren’t for me should have made me desperate to have them, but the truth is, even with their chocolate coating, they were fruit, and as anyone who’s been a kid can tell you, fruit isn’t a real dessert.
Of course, I’m older now. I’m old enough to poach a pear.
Bondage: the good kind. Hermès popup shop in Harrods Knightsbridge via Park and Cube. I do love an Hermès scarf.
-FDB
Sweet merciful Lord… WANT!!
A passage taken from Graham Greene’s novel, The End of The Affair, which I’m currently reading.
Sometimes I get so tired of trying to convince him that I love him and shall love him for ever. He pounces on my words like a barrister and twists them. I know he is afraid of that desert which would be around him if our love were to end, but he can’t realize that I feel exactly the same. What he says aloud, I say to myself silently and write it here. What can one build in the desert? Sometimes I wonder whether it isn’t possible to come to an end of love, and I know that he is wondering too and is afraid of that point where the desert begins. What do we do in the desert if we lose each other? How does one go on living after that?
He is jealous of the past and the present and the future. His love is like a medieval chastity belt: only when he is there, with me, in me, does he feel safe. If only I could make him feel secure, then we could love peacefully, happily; not savagely, inordinately, and the desert would recede out of sight. For a lifetime perhaps.
The feeling of Christmas…
Christmas tree made from crystals.
Bedroom essentials for the artistic minds.
