Animated Inspiration

Still searching for my muse.

A perfect stranger.
I did not know about him but I knew of him.
He left questions, statements, pure poetry on my
His grace with words twisted the corners of my mouth upwards and caused me much elation.
A gallant gentleman.
A fallen soldier.
Thank you for approaching me the way you did.
Thank you for coming into my life but I wish you hadn’t left it so soon.
The first night you came to me, I let my tears flow freely whilst my sobs wrecked my body feeling as though I had lost something unknown.
You were that unknown.
I’ll keep you in my prayers and I’ll reserve a spot in my heart for your prose.
Your kindness, your vigour, your struggle, your being.
Inna Lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un

(Source: lionofallah)


Karen Elson and Carolyn Murphy in “Hothouse Flowers” by Steven Klein American Vogue, January 2013

(via rick-owenn)

'But I do not wish to escape to myself, I wish to escape from myself. I wish to obliterate my consciousness and my knowledge of independent existence, my guilts, my secretiveness, what you would (perhaps unkindly) call my “hypocrisy”. I am no child of nature, I am ugly and imperfect to myself, and I cannot through poetry or romantic visions exalt myself to symbolic glory.'

From a letter to Jack Kerouac from Allen Ginsberg.

The beat generation is yet alive in the best of us.

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)

I live in a generation of love letters forgone.
Distinguished from those before by the adept technology it markets.
People spit bars on the streets whilst poetry is washed off walls,
The homeless have more heart than the homeward and we are all doomed to love and lose.
There are no first come, first love,
Only a magnitude of passed moments that leave us speculating figures we forget.
This is the last of our liberties.
Our artists turned retrospective mimics.
Their works admonished and critiqued, then sold for millions after their demonised demises.
It is the last of our kind.
The revolutionary idealists; our hippie like stances torn from our minds like the flowers they tear by the roots out of the still pregnant soil, soul.
It is simply the end of our wandering days.
We’re dying out like a diseased breed.
And soon we’ll be extinct.

(Source: floralkaleidascope)

I dreamt about you recently.
You threw a party I didn’t attend.
Instead I opted to visit an American styled Diner - much like the ones we frequented.
I showed up to the vision of you lounging against the red leather seat of a booth, your arms on the table in front of you, palms laid open almost as if in wait of me.
I knew you’d be there as well as you knew I’d look for you.
The rest of the dream involved slight monologue and various trifling emotions,
However the bit I best remember is straddling your lap with my thighs and running my fingers through your hair.
Your kisses always did taste a little like magic to me.

(Source: majordeadringer)

I met a boy in Portugal this summer, although I should really call him a man. He had a sincere sweetness about him, beautifully warm brown eyes and a smile that set you at ease. His name was lost on me at first but now I doubt I’ll ever forget it. Obrigado Bernando.

(Source: jsebouvi)


Givenchy Fall 2014 RTW

(via etesvielle)

Human nature.

(Source: these-times-shall-pass, via thepeacewar)

Inspired by the elegance.

(Source: micaceous, via vogue-is-viral)


Gisele Bundchen photographed by Steven Meisel for Vogue Italia, June 2013

(via rick-owenn)

(Source: psychedelicfoxes, via tazmaniargh)

Eyes devoid of emotion.
One can only hope to achieve that level of disregard.

(Source: tedbunny)

I’m wholesome, contently so, until the lucidity of the cards I’ve been dealt is uncovered.
Then I’m a God forsaken mess trapped in a hell of my own making.

(Source: inprnt)

I wish you could see what I know to be true,
Rather than your own idealistic conceived notions and ideals.
Solitude is starting to sound like a sin.

(Source: gasinmylungs)

My fingers come away from my eyes glittering like diamonds.
Plenty of piqued emotions that come from reasons that shouldn’t be important.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
I’ve just been caught off guard.
Another flawed existence ridden with bullet holes and cracks from stones thrown in spite.
Pointless subjection.
There is no just cause for these sentiments.
None that come straight to mind.
Rather an idea, an interpretation, a conception.
All I know is that I know nothing at all.
Nothing of true value.
None of you do.

(Source: dreamingillusi0n)

Fixed. theme by Andrew McCarthy