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Guillaume Seignac (French, 1870-1929)

Le réveil de Psyché

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A warm break from the hunt by Charles Olivier de Penne (French, 1831--1897)

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guess who just got ✨dommed by the narrative✨✨✨

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Me one day

top surgery tats

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O dear Lord, how fervently do I yearn to worship you, with a desperation that consumes my very soul. To be enfolded in Thy divine embrace, albeit a semblance of true affection, to be cradled as an innocent infant once more. I seek solace in the promise of a gentle death, a tranquil hope for a morrow bathed in ethereal light, where only fields of blossoms and boundless meadows reside. To awaken solely to worship, for worship has been my singular vocation, a lifetime spent with bruised knees, kneeling at Thy sacred feet. Yet such yearnings are but idle musings, mere phantoms of fancy, devoid of tangible substance. Thou art not real, and here I remain, a prisoner to my longing. Wishing it were so

Obsession, I am Obsession incarnate. My love is a devouring flame, I shall consume you, bit by bit, under the guise of devotion. Do not offer me tender affection, do not gently caress my visage, for it repels me. Yet your malevolence placates my spirit. I fear your honesty, beloved, for I dread the truth. Be merciless, deceitful, lay ruin upon me. I crave to be humbled. I demand it. Subdue me with force. I could never love you if I did not equally fear you. Such is the divine commandment. For God demands it. All devotion bestowed upon him is ever mingled with dread.

I search for you everywhere, i seek your face in every crowd I find myself amidst.

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Laying on my bed, arms rested upon my head. Fighting the urge to call my mother, drowning out my need, my dependence. Yearning to hear her voice, yearning for the love she never gave me. I put my phone down and pretend it never happened, I pretend I never had a mother at all.

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i don't care.

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🖤

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Need to be here so bad rn

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everywhere in the world theres birds. and you should listen to them

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I am so deeply unsatisfied with my work because I see the sickening flaws in every brush stroke. I see the same flaws that are merely a reflection of me. It is not enough, it will never be enough,

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I absolutely adore this poem. I ought to illustrate it some day

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled “immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”

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Take me there

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