for every caress in the damp-haired days of march, i think i am the flower vendor roaming the streets of the old city with roses no one wants to buy. and plastered on magazine covers are faces so beautiful that my soul wishes to cry.

because claude monet in his garden even made lavenders think that lavenders had to try. but the walls that are relics of artists that have died still live on. in cathedrals, in mosques, in vinyls engraved on your shoulder like my favourite tattooed song. just as well because when all the musicians halt, emptying theatres and violins scorched. everything i find beautiful is caged behind the glasses of terrarium shops. so if i'm not smiling tonight, all that i find pretty is at fault. perhaps what i regret most is having lost the films we made at sixteen, or the saltwater lies in your dyed blue jeans, but every sentence i write reminds me. of you. you. you.

i think moonlights would melt quicker had they known that the dawning comes with you.

-//on beauty & art, 11/03/23

a/n:

"if you go and dance at a lot of weddings,  you'll cry at a lot of funerals. if you were at the beginning of many moments, you'll be there when they end. if you have a lot of friends, you'll experience that many break ups. if you think that the loss you feel is great, it's because you've attempted that many things in your life. if you made a lot of mistakes, it's better than having lived without doing anything at all.

it is not unhappiness to be unable to reach a star, unhappiness is that you don't have a star that you cannot reach."

—elisabeth kübler-ross, life lessons.