gothicam

[gothicam]

[gothicam]

[gothicam]

something silly for season 3 bc i've been told my art was too on the writer's wall

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[gothicam]

You need to read my thoughts not my words

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En fin de compte, je ne suis qu'une fille calme

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Je vais commencer à poster en français ici, parfois cela semble plus confortable qu'en anglais

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Tout ce que j'avais était construit sur des mensonges, à quoi ça sert d'être honnête ?

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Pretty lies make me fall

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More photos of Père Lachaise that I had forgotten about in my camera!!

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the levels of cunt they’re serving in this photo,,,,fucking astronomical

[gothicam]

Beginnings bring the lightness of hope, the freshness of the unknown and the pulse of the unexpected that can happen. These are promises, lines not yet written, an open horizon before us. Already final, they carry the weight of what was experienced, the cutting of what is closed and the longing for what can no longer be touched. While beginnings invite us to dream, endings force us to remember. They confront us with the fragility of time, with the certainty that everything inevitably comes to an end. It's not the emptiness of the end that hurts, but the echo of the memories it holds. Each farewell is a small death, a renunciation of what was and that, in a way, we still want to continue to be. Maybe they are difficult because endings never belong entirely to us. They take away something that, however brief it may have been, was part of us. And maybe that's why they hurt so much: they force us to be witnesses of the ending, while we still long for the beginning.

[gothicam]

Beginnings bring the lightness of hope, the freshness of the unknown and the pulse of the unexpected that can happen. These are promises, lines not yet written, an open horizon before us. Already final, they carry the weight of what was experienced, the cutting of what is closed and the longing for what can no longer be touched. While beginnings invite us to dream, endings force us to remember. They confront us with the fragility of time, with the certainty that everything inevitably comes to an end. It's not the emptiness of the end that hurts, but the echo of the memories it holds. Each farewell is a small death, a renunciation of what was and that, in a way, we still want to continue to be. Maybe they are difficult because endings never belong entirely to us. They take away something that, however brief it may have been, was part of us. And maybe that's why they hurt so much: they force us to be witnesses of the ending, while we still long for the beginning.