“If there’s anything you should do before you die, allow me to suggest something: look into someone’s eyes, someone who you really care about. Really look at them, just look at their face, their eyes; take them in. Breathe their breath into your lungs at a moment when they’re the most happy….and I promise you, I swear, you’ll never see anything more beautiful than the expression on their face….or the one on yours.”—(via muchlikemelissa)
Dear whoever is reading this, I understand how rough things are right now. I just want to let you know that things will get better, I promise. Keep holding on just a little bit longer. I know you feel like nobody really cares. You're wrong, stop denying it. I care, otherwise I wouldn't be reblogging this. You're not alone, we may be miles away but we're all going through the same things. Please keep holding on.
“You’ve got to be prepared for the names they are going to call you compared to your male peers…You will be a floozy and a slattern. He will be virile and a ladies’ man. You will be a freakshow, a retching wretch, a sloppy drunk. He will be charismatic, vainglorious, a ferocious drunk and Dionysian. You will be indiscriminate and desperate. He will be generous, tortured and driven.”—Courtney Love (via starbellygirl)
We live in a technologically homogonized world. Many of the devices that we all share and take for granted look the same. The trappings of the modern world all resemble each other like reflections caught in a pair of mirrors. Steampunk exists to add wonder to our common place world. By reflecting on the past and using it to add color and whimsey to our present, we share a bit of our world with our forebearers. By adapting the processes of the past to create new things from old, we share their legacy with our friends and families, perhaps even our children. The glow of brass and the warmth of wood replace antiseptic stainless steel and plastic in our homes. By our choice of clothing and style, the music we listen to or make, the stories we write and share, and by the imprint upon our tools and devices that we make, we etch something of ourselves onto the pristine surface of our lives. We make it more complex, more engaging, more baroque. Which, in the end, is what the steampunk ideal is all about. Perhaps by recasting our world in brass tubes, hissing steam and clockwork machines, we can regain a measure of joy in our surroundings that has been taken away for the sake of convenience and conformity.
Steampunk simply embodies a time and a place. The time… the late 19th century. The place… a steam powered world, where air travel by fantastical dirigibles is as common as traveling by train or boat (or submarine). A place where national interests are vastly different than our own version of history. A place where the elegant and refined are as likely to get pulled into a grand adventure, as the workers, ruffians, and lower classes. A place where the idea of space travel is not so far fetched. A place where lost civilizations are found and lost again. A place where anything is possible, and science can be twisted to meet ones own ends. That to me is the essence of Steampunk. It can have political overtones and commentary, or it can be straight escapist fiction. Either way, if it meets these criteria. It is Steampunk.
-Joshua A. Pfeiffer I see it as a reaction to the utter soullessness and disposability of modern tech. There are only so many garish space-eggs and tech. bubbles you can look at before you just stop appreciating them. Steampunk harkens back to a time when technology was still novel and romantic, when the world was still marvelling at its own cleverness with childlike pride and wonder, looking hopefully toward a strange and wonderful future. -Unknown
when the water rushes over your face and your eyes, bright, buried in the soft cave of a fair skinned structure, peek from beneath dark lashes to whisper words that carry a tune much louder than the crash of shower to drain and more penetrating than any spoken affection?
i think i know i think i know…
why is it so beautiful, when you slowly fade into the covers and melt into the mattress, with tussled threads of gold wrapping around your face lapping at the nape of your neck and falling gently across your brow?
i think i know i think i know
i think it’s the rise and fall of a chest where a heart like the lions calls home, but i digress i think it’s the slightest of movement below those lids with each beat before i drift i fall into the sweetest sleep.