everydayadrawing:

fellowhollow:

Colin doing “Sunday Morning Coming Down.”

Here we go. Drew and I worked this one out, in between sits on the porch.

My friends are good at everything. 

radiantimperfection:

I almost always buy my books.

I tried for a few years to not do that, in an effort to save money. But I discovered soon enough that books, like travel, are something I am willing to pay for that causes me no regret. Even if the adventure births sadness in my soul. The money that they cost is worth saving me the rising tidal sense of loss whenever I have to return a beloved book. It’s absence holds its place on my bookshelf, stout and unflinching. They are my most dear friends, and they make my room mine, they make it home, lined up along my walls, worn spines reading my adventures to me nightly in my dreams. They are my mirrors, showing me myself, a quick glance in the morning to remind me who I am and that I look just fine. I can tell you more about my favorite characters than I can about my own self, but in that tragedy lies true insight that many never encounter. They slay me, and fortify me.

I’m shallowly particular about the covers, but not wear and tear. I need my own copies because I make them bleed. I underline and note until they are forged in fire in my soul, those words that resonate from one pained and earnest self to another through time and space and ink and eternity.

And if I’m waxing poetic, then I blame my friends, because none do it quite so well as Fitzgerald or Hemingway or Kerouac or Keats or Donne.

Agreed.

thedailywhat:

Quote of the Day: “I’m not transgender. I. Am. A. Boy,” says 5-year-old Tyler, who born a girl. He first insisted he was a boy at the age of 2, and eventually was diagnosed with gender identity disorder.

Now, his parents allow him to present himself as a boy, and Tyler’s mom doesn’t think he’s going through a phase (though doctors say many children with gender identity disorder eventually switch back to their biological gender). “I just want my child to be happy,” she says.

Don’t miss the video and pic gallery that help tell Tyler’s story.

[wapo]

Sweet sweet boy. Be you now. Don’t wait for anything or anyone. Love the parents that love you so and live as you.  Don’t live 50 plus years as something you aren’t. Don’t lie to your friends and family, to yourself. Don’t let people know not-you for their entire life and tell them it was not you after 17 nice years. But I’m glad I exist. Good good boy. You’re doing it right and you’re smart. So brave. 

(Source: lockjawcomic)

there is something missing these days.

when i see it,

when I’m with it.

a lack of substance,

I think.

maybe it’s the void that love lost leaves.

maybe it’s maturity.

a faded scar inscription,

maybe time. 

(Source: timmyp10)

radiantimperfection:

I told him my heart was rusty.

He told me rust was the color of forgiveness. 

I cannot wait to make up all the school work I missed so that I can just read for the rest of my life. 

 

I had the pleasure of meeting R.L. Stine a little while ago with a great group of people! 

Sometimes people need to be aware of how much I love Beck. 

Attention followers: I love Beck. Quite a bit, actually.  

(Source: duchessofkirkcaldy)

I want to cover a bookshelf with chalkboard paint and write notes and reminders on it. Then I’d be chalking to my shelf. Probably.

Old Haunts | Memoryhouse

When will we know it’s enough?

Kept you here beneath my breath

Smooth the sheets upon the bed

Gathered slowly on the steps

Placed an heirloom to forget

When will we know it’s enough?

It’s enough. 

This song’s simplicity and beauty hit me every time, particularly at the 3:15 mark. Her voice is lovely without overpowering or being overpowered.  Small and smooth lyrics that blend into each other, they say a lot with a little. Harmonious and flowing, this song is the sound of a watercolor painting to me. 

m3zzaluna:

untitled

photo by oscar van alphen, from kinderen in de grote stad, 1958

incidentalcomics:

Some of My Best Friends Are Records

melissacooke:

“Washed Out”, graphite on paper, 50” x 50”
by Melissa Cooke