arts writers

on my first date with happiness,
i decided i had enough of
oversized black tshirts and loose black jeans
so i threw on a yellow sundress,
which i found after passing through my closet
like a raging hurricane;
as always, i was running late.

on my first date with happiness,
i decided i was going to let her
fall in love with my natural self
so i put down my concealer, mascara, lipstick and eyeliner.
and i ornament myself with rings and necklaces,
a spray of flowery, sweet perfume.

on my first date with happiness,
i decided i was going to let her in
so i told her my everything,
i was afraid, of course but
i knew i would have to, at least,
give her a chance
to get to know me,
i would have to give my tired self a chance
to stop being a fucking liar.

on my first date with happiness,
i said:
“hey, my name is sadness. but
i want to learn to be happy again.”

on my first date with happiness,
i let a little bit of life
reach my insides
after a whole long time
of having myself
against myself.

—  on my first date with happiness.

This is something I’ve been working on in my free time for very selfish reasons.

I think I already wrote about sentimental attachment to finished works, how, as soon as I call an illustration finished, that becomes its own thing. It’s done and the painting process doesn’t seem to matter anymore. That doesn’t mean I stop caring about the artwork, but I just don’t give much importance to the creation process, no matter how many hours I spent on it.

This might sound utterly stupid and cheesy, but for the first time in my life I can’t get over one of my works. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I can’t give emotional closure to a story I wrote or that, if I had time, I’d draw every single scene of it. Maybe I should give it a few days and I’ll be back to normal *sighs*

But in the meanwhile I have to channel this fixation somehow, so this what I’m doing, a sort of illustration/ book cover for the fanfiction story in question, The Experiment.

For those who have read the story, those trees and thorns may look familiar (:

Love was nowhere to be seen. Just hollow shells, with narrow minds and defeated hearts.
—  Are we not created for more? // @abillionlittlethoughts
Can I just...

In lieu of the new tumblr settings, can I make yet another plea with those of you who read fics and consume art on tumblr to please reblog them?   

Fics and art will die on a creator’s dash if they aren’t reblogged.  It’s never been more true than now. 

If you want to keep receiving content from creators, reblog the the content. If it’s something you enjoyed?  Reblog it.  It’s not hard.  I am going to make a point to reblog everything I read from now on.  (With the proper tags of course), as well as all the art that I see on my dash.  

I cannot make it simpler.  Posts WILL die unless they’re reblogged.  No one will see your ‘like’.  Your like is a bookmark for YOU to find it later.  Your reblog means the world to a creator because it means you are willing to go the little extra distance and recommend this to your followers.  

Don’t let creations die on the dash of those who created them.  

Reblog to save a creation.  

Reblog to keep a creator creating.

Reblog, please. 

You are
the kindest person
I have ever known,
not because of your words
or what you’ve done
but because you always
used to bring out
the best me
I could be.
—  // –
j.d.m.

the phase begins,
its sweet, dreamy.
but is it so bad if it ends?
you’re left with so much more that holds you both together,
so much more that will carry you through those days
that feel like they’ll never end.
filled with more love,
more passion, strength
to withstand all that tries to break you down.

that’s real love.

i don’t think i was in love with you or anything like that.
i was just amazed by our existences’ collision despite the very little probability they had to do so. i just really enjoyed your presence, your voice and your scent. i just smiled sillily when the thought of you popped in my head and cried sincerely when you walked away. i just found it easier to breathe, to live when you were around but suddenly felt the urge to never wake up to another day when you left.
i repeat, i don’t think i was in love with you or anything. i’m a very good liar, so good i convinced myself whatever feelings i had for you were not to be called “love”. however, just like all good liars do, i knew the exact truth i was trying to cover up.