self portrait as a dreaming man

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride

…Or okay, once a bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding…anyway, I’m done wasting my energy on self-pity. If marriage is in my future, I want it to be when the time is right with the right person to share in the rest of my life.

If these were the olden days (the so-called-by-some golden age) I’d be marked as expired, past my prime, way past the point of eligibility; labeled a spinster, old maid, washed up and dried out–marriage but a distant dream.

My halls may not resound with the deep laugh of a man. My walls may not hold framed family portraits. My bed may be as empty as my womb. But so what? I won’t stress it. I know those options haven’t been taken off this (for now) table for one.

“ Dreams of his crash won’t pass
Oh, how they all adored him
Beauty will last when spiraled down.

The stars that mystify
He left them all behind.
And how his children cried
He left us all behind.” 

Miss Murder, AFI

The man behind the madness. 



butt-load of doodles, comin’ at ya!

1) @yuunic’s character, Ethan, just being a precious <3 <3
2) A character design for a gal I’m making. Her name is Rory ;D
3) Had a dream about a space-tiger-captain-man…so I tried to draw him.
4) Moonlight, another one of @yuunic’s precious children~
5) (Less than becoming) Self-portrait ;p
6) Residual Insomnia feelings.
7) Eeveesona! Of course I’m a Sylveon because I blossom more and more the more love I recieve ;D

Enjoy, duders!


Caught Within a Dream

Caught within a dream within a dream, a man within a man, a thought within a thought, an ocean so deep, he will drown in his sleep. (Oren Lavie - A Dream Within a Dream)

The long exposure renders both the day and the night scene so surreal looking. Sanibel Island, Florida. The song lyrics just match the scene perfectly.

Photographed by: Paolo Nacpil

James Ensor - Self-portrait with masks (1899)

At the time [July 1914] I was sitting in a café with a couple of Belgian friends, a young painter and the writer Crommelynck. We had been spending the afternoon with James Ensor, the greatest modern Belgian painter, a very strange, reserved, hermit of a man, who was much prouder of the rather feeble little polkas and waltzes for military band that he composed than of his amazing paintings, executed in brilliant colours. He had shown us his works, if rather reluctantly - for the idea that someone might want to buy one made him comically anxious. His real dream, as his friends told me, was to sell them at a high price but at the same time to be able to keep them all, because he was as fond of money as of every single one of his own works. Parting from one always cast him into deep despair for a couple of days.

(Stefan Zweig, The World of Yesterday)