analirios
Ana
à flor da pele
13037 posts
Last active 60 minutes ago
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
alittledeeperinside
A Look Deeper Inside
crimsonlantern
My Art Blog
doug325
Untitled
vicioux
say it's hard to breathe inside my ocean
the-2-nd
Untitled
Text
Say it with me:
I love myself through transition and discomfort.
I love myself through the times I stumble.
I love myself through my mental health episodes.
I love myself through times of loss and grief.
I love myself through every stage of growth.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
« Tenderness is the art of personifying, of sharing feelings, and thus endlessly discovering similarities. Creating stories means constantly bringing things to life, giving an existence to all the tiny pieces of the world that are represented by human experiences […]. Tenderness personalizes everything to which it relates, making it possible to give it a voice, to give it the space and the time to come into existence, and to be expressed. It is thanks to tenderness that the teapot starts to talk.
Tenderness is the most modest form of love. […] It appears wherever we take a close and careful look at another being, at something that is not our “self”. Tenderness is spontaneous and disinterested; it goes far beyond empathetic fellow feeling. Instead it is the conscious, though perhaps slightly melancholy, common sharing of fate. Tenderness is deep emotional concern about another being, its fragility, its unique nature, and its lack of immunity to suffering and the effects of time. Tenderness perceives the bonds that connect us, the similarities and sameness between us. It is a way of looking that shows the world as being alive, living, interconnected, cooperating with, and codependent on itself.
Literature is built on tenderness […]. »
— Olga Tokarczuk in her Nobel speech, December 2019
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
me, wrapping my arms around myself: i know it’s scary. i know. just keep being brave for a little while longer. i’m here with you.
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth—I count that something of a miracle.
Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
805 notes
·
View notes
Photo
The Singer (La cantante mondana), c.1884 by Giovanni Boldini (Italian, 1842–1931)
11K notes
·
View notes
Text
“I can’t write, I’m desperate for solitude with you. All the rest is dark, boring, you-less.”
— Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Véra tr. by Olga Voronina & Brian Boyd
3K notes
·
View notes