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criwes:

Eisberg (2007)

Felix Rehfeld is a painter. As such, he is an illusionist. His early landscapes and water scenes appear as masses of paint in luxuriant impasto; yet the images are actually executed in a refined painterly manner and hardly protrude from the two-dimensional surface. They quickly reveal themselves as extraordinary optical illusions. Rehfeld’s artistic impetus is to make the act of painting itself and its inherent possibilities of visual illusion the subject of his art.

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(Source: internetpoetry, via furs)

♥84311 The signs as emotions people feel, but can't explain Aries: Ambedo. A melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details — raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee — Briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for it's own sake.
Taurus: Nodus Tollens. The realization that the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you any more — that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre — which requires you to go back and reread the chapters you had originally skimmed to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure.
Gemini: Kairosclerosis. The moment you realize that you’re currently happy — consciously trying to savour the feeling —which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an after-taste.
Cancer: Sonder. The unexplainable feeling of neither sadness nor happiness, but the realization that every stranger around you, whether on the streets or in pictures, has a live as vivid and complex as your own.
Leo: Nighthawk. A recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.
Virgo: Catoptric Tristesse. The sadness that you’ll never really know what other people think of you, whether good, bad or if at all — that although we reflect on each other with the sharpness of a mirror, the true picture of how we’re coming off somehow reaches us softened and distorted, as if each mirror was preoccupied with twisting around, desperately trying to look itself in the eye.
Libra: Vellichor. The strange wistfulness of used book stores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time — filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
Scorpio: Monachopsis. The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place, as maladapted to your surroundings as a seal on a beach — lumbering, clumsy, easily distracted, huddled in the company of other misfits, unable to recognize the ambient roar of your intended habitat, in which you’d be fluidly, brilliantly, effortlessly at home.
Sagittarius: Kenopsia. The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet—a school hallway in the evening, an unlit office on a weekend, vacant fairgrounds—an emotional after image that makes it seem not just empty but hyper-empty, with a total population in the negative, who are so conspicuously absent they glow like neon signs.
Capricorn: Mauerbauertraurigkeit. The inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like—as if all your social taste buds suddenly went numb, leaving you unable to distinguish cheap politeness from the taste of genuine affection, unable to recognize its rich and ambiguous flavours, its long and delicate maturation, or the simple fact that each tasting is double-blind.
Aquarius: Xeno. The smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence — moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.
Pisces: Mahpiohanzia. The disappointment of being unable to fly, unable to stretch out your arms and vault into the air, having finally shrugged off the ballast of your own weight and ignited the fuel tank of unfulfilled desires you've been storing up since before you were born.

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avina:

or when u jus tweet :( emoji n dudes reply like “he messing up again?”

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♥10277

nevver:

Broad brushstrokes, Martin Wehmer

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♥66478

dappledwithshadow:

Vincent van Gogh

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