In a million little pieces

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That’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end.
Elizabeth Wurtzel (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

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twloha:

Greenland 2012: Chasing the Light by Zaria Forman

Artist Zaria Forman creates large-scale, realistic landscapes using only chalk pastels. 

"In August 2012, I led an Arctic expedition up the NW coast of Greenland. Called "Chasing the Light," it was the second expedition the mission of which was to create art inspired by this dramatic geography. The first, in 1869, was led by the American painter William Bradford. My mother, Rena Bass Forman, had conceived the idea for the voyage, but did not live to see it through. During the months of her illness her dedication to the expedition never wavered and I promised to carry out her final journey.

These drawings were inspired by this trip. Documenting climate change, the work addresses the concept of saying goodbye on scales both global and personal. In Greenland, I scattered my mother’s ashes amidst the melting ice.”  

Forman donates a percent of all sales to 350.org, a global climate movement. 

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Adventures of the traveling Molko presents:

And then there are these! ! ♡.♡

Pics not mine. No copyright infringement intended.

Filed under brian molko

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…It’s more like kind of a letter I wrote to myself. It’s almost as if… kind of a… almost a suicide note, you know… kind of thing… Almost, you know, sort of a warning to myself, you know, that there are things in your life that you need to change, otherwise it’s bye-bye…
Brian Molko (about ‘Song to Say Goodbye’, Radio2 Italy, 02/08/2012)

There are times that his brutal honesty, I dunno, still shakes me, I guess.

(via picassoblue)

(Source: bbvolk, via picassoblue)

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TRUST NO POET

I am looking for the poem in the ache. I see hurt
and need to preserve it, stuff it like a dead deer.

I think I fell in love with feeling loved.

Look at your wrists. There is so much art
in these scars. They are the perfect shade of

red. They are the perfect shade of hurt
for this poem I’m working on.

When I was young, I taught myself to teach
myself. I taught myself to cry on demand.

I think I fell in love with crying for the camera,

with looking like I felt something
I did not actually feel.

There is no bruise that cannot be painted
beautiful. There is no splinter worth censoring.

I can’t remember if the hurt came before
the poem or if the poem came before the hurt.

Reach for the paper and ballpoint pen
long before the bandages or tissues.

Don’t let this good blood go to waste.

I think I fell in love with a room
full of people who hate me. I think I fell

in love with the actress
who plays me in my poetry.

I think I fell in love with being trampled,
just for the poem of it.
TRUST NO POET,by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

(via aqua--relle)