tarkovskologist:

Short Term 12 (2013)

— PLAYED 6,615 TIMES

Frédéric Chopin - Polonaise in B-flat Minor, Opus Posthumous: “L’Adieu”  - Ludwik Stefański


@Harry_Styles: Be nice to nice.

@Harry_Styles: Be nice to nice.

lehroi:

Virginia Wonka
'Mudémonos de Planeta', 2014.

lehroi:

Virginia Wonka

'Mudémonos de Planeta', 2014.


I want to do one in the middle, look at the lens, and go: ‘Haaa~’

I want to do one in the middle, look at the lens, and go: ‘Haaa~’


Matthew Timothy Healy (2014)

Matthew Timothy Healy (2014)

tu es dans toutes mes pensées

9/24/14 @ 11:35 PM

I apologize for the length of time that has passed since the last time we spoke, the last time I wrote to you. It has been difficult for me to watch all these words manifest themselves as tiny, meek attempts to reach out, to hold onto this glimpse of you that has begun to draw smaller by distance, blurring at the seams, blending into the edge of the earth’s curve. It’d odd that we only knew each other but two weeks. Barely enough time to discover your purpose in my life. I don’t believe in love at first sight despite my quite maudlin romantic tendencies. I often don’t believe in love itself, in all honesty. But I have faith in those rare moments when you meet someone’s eyes and you just know that they’re going to matter in your life. I think you’re that moment in this lifetime for me. That shimmering moment which I have become a slave to, watching the frames of our meeting pass by in incremental whips, slashes like a sharp scratch of a pencil. Us standing on the S-bhan station, your blue shorts, your black and red bag, the rushing force of a train speeding away. It’s like a knife churning within me. Because there you are in my mind: this enigma that I can’t stop wanting, that I can’t stop foolishly trying to define (Weltschmerz, ya?). I am clenching my fists in the shadow of you, yearning for a grasp. I am that sick woman who fought for a mere fingertip kiss with Jesus’ robe because she believed, above all else, that it was him and him alone who could cure her. But maybe you’re my illness. Would it be childish of me to say that I love you? To say I could fall in love with you? That I am now, currently, on the other side of the globe, falling in love with what I know of you? I keep listening to that song you wrote, and all I think of is the night we danced to it when it came out. And you were hearing it completed for the first time, and you looked like the end of a book, when all the words collide into that final period, and you’re left alone with yourself and the alleys of your bones. All I think about is your merciless obsession with the weeping soul of Kafka and how he suffered at his own hand, for nothing, for no purpose other than his own inability to stop doing so. His overt awareness of what it felt like to feel nothing. And this song is your shot into the void, du schon? (schön…wie schön du bist mir) “Everybody says that he’s a man. But it takes him quite a while to tie his own shoes.” Remember when you told me that you are a conflicted man? A confused man? I watched the way your mouth trembled around that word. A man. Ein Mann. Un homme. I used to hear nothing but your lips when you were speaking French. The rest of the universe was stilled like the morning after the first snowfall when everything grows quiet and dull and soft. And you taught me how to say “i love you” in all the languages you know, so now I have added three more phrases to my list of things I need to confess to you but cannot muster a breath deep enough to do so (entre deux cœurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles). Will I see you this winter? You said that you would come to Berlin to see me, to show me that faceless market in Kreutzberg that you love. But a part of me, a deeply saddened part of me that finds joy only in those intimate moments in which you allow your mind carry on into the cave of your darkest thoughts, where happiness is nothing but ignorance. That part of me knows that you will forget. Do you know that you do that quite often? Forget things? Forget people? Forget promises? Forget to write me back? It’s endearing until the disappointment it bears with it translates into a self-defeated skepticism of hope, burying into my marrow. Deeper deeper still. I like the idea that we get to pick someone in this lifetime. That we will have these moments where we just see this Person (I capitalize that to appease the German in you) and you know that they’re yours as much as you are theirs. And it’s this complexly beautiful and tragic realization, because life is dukkha, du weisst? But it’s okay because this person is here in this moment, and they’re looking at you too, and you know that your expressions match. And it is nothing but brain chemistry, they say. It’s nothing but chemicals, but you just keep love them regardless of how. I would choose you to be my Person. I would always choose you. Despite the distance and the missed chances and the uncertainty. I would choose you. I want that S-bhan moment to be relived daily. I want to wake up to your steady breaths against the back of my neck. I want to matter to you. Ich liebe dich. Je t’aime. Ti amo. I love you.

streetberlin:

street photography | martin waltz | vienna 2014 | blur II

streetberlin:



street photography
 | martin waltz | vienna 2014 | blur II