View allAll Photos Tagged Everythingandnothing
This glass feels like a fence. A filter. Things and thoughts dance.
Lights glitter, everchanging. These are the hearts of the atmosphere we breathe.
It’s a wonderful world
And you take and you give
And the sun fills the sky
In the space where you live
It’s a day full of dreams
It’s a dream of a day
And the joy that it brings
Nearly sweeps her away
david sylvian nine horses snow born sorrow
Red. Stop. The engine mutters, impatient.
The color of passion, a thing that burns, muttering, mostly in the steady moments of the day. Constricted. Red.
Neo: Whoa. Déjà vu.
[Everyone freezes right in their tracks]
Trinity: What did you just say?
Neo: Nothing. Just had a little déjà vu.
Trinity: What did you see?
Do not quench your inspiration and your imagination; do not become the slave of your model.
Vincent Van Gogh
I can't change the fact that my paintings don't sell. But the time will come when people will recognize that they are worth more than the value of the paints used in the picture.
Vincent Van Gogh
Come il sorgere del sole attendo
la tua voce senza suono,
questa dolce distante carezza
di tuono.
Sei la scala che tocca l'azzurro,
misura della vibrazione
di una terra minima che sotto di me
trema.
It's always stronger, when it rains.
Somehow the pouring water gently brings on my side of the world the sweet salt of tears I've once known, kept by gods in a region of clouds.
All the things I see become watercolor. Walls get thinner, lower. Our door gets opened.
Day after day I keep waiting for the night with a wishful state of mind.
The dark welcomes me, filled with siren songs I've learned to decrypt. Lights break the surface tension of that blackness, drops of sounds fall on my skin.
The smell of wet soil and opening mushrooms tell me she's near.
Poetry isn’t propaganda,
nor is a poem an act of will.
Though it may help us understand a
poet, it stays a mystery still.
We’re caught, as Wittgenstein reminds us,
in the net of language. Language finds us
chirruping at our mother’s knee,
captures us in the nursery.
Everyone’s called, but few are chosen
to wrestle, from our common speech,
the brightness of the word, to reach
the life that lies beyond our frozen
habits of thought, to show with love
much that can not be spoken of.
Gwen Harwood
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly -
A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky
Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.
Sylvia Plath
We all have ghosts, remorse, dreams, things we love and hate. One day something in life - a word, a phrase, something in a book, a beautiful woman - clicks, and part of that world takes on a special meaning. And you realize you have a story to tell.
Arturo Perez Reverte
Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover
Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading:
Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her:
Love lies bleeding.
Stately shine his purple plumes, exceeding
Pride of princes: nor shall maid or lover
Find on earth a fairer sign worth heeding.
Yet may love, sore wounded scarce recover
Strength and spirit again, with life receding:
Hope and joy, wind-winged, about him hover:
Love lies bleeding.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
I dream of painting and then I paint my dream, he once affirmed.
I can often strongly figure him out dwelling through the humid fields, almost invisible. He's actually walking painfully, none of the ideas he captures are good enough.
One final morning, a flock of black impending birds obscures one of his yellow fields. And he suddenly knows what to do.
This struggled with depression dutch postimpressionist genius was Vincent Van Gogh.
______
As we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties the inmost strength of the heart is developed.
Vincent Van Gogh
Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old
and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --
this is what desires resemble that have passed
without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved
a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.
Constantine P. Cavafy
Lay your hands upon me,
in search for answers inviting.
Constant struggle inside me.
Guide me through this nothing that's everything.
- Mudvayne
Too many visions, too much thinking.
Trees rain flowers walking
people, green yellow black, the exploding
spring: waves of unbeareable poetry.
A conjuring. A tightening
rope. Pictures. Pictures. Pictures.