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Blink-182 - Pretty Little Girl

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Breath, 1976 

Breath, 1976 

(Source: foxesinbreeches, via p0intofdisgust)

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Mumford & Sons - I Will Wait

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dougbeyermtg:

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If I ever receive any, I’ll let you knowBAHAHAHA *coughs*

I have a couple of suggestions.

Look for the intent behind the feedback.

Put yourself inside the person’s brain. If they’re actually looking to improve something about you or your work, fantastic. They have the same goal as you, and…

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samspratt:

The feeling that we’ll never be “good enough” isn’t something to remove my dear grey-faced pudding-pop, it’s the cold, hard, and universal truth that pushes us forward whether we’re amateurs or masters of our crafts. If I feel I’m good enough at any point in my life, I’ll be both a massive disappointment to the tiny angel-winged/shoulder-mounted version of me, and have effectively cheated myself of exploring my own human capacity. Like many problems that people face, how you use the struggle will determine its effect on you. It’s shockingly easy to let the abstract fear of never amounting to anything cripple you into a sobbing, fetal-position-assuming, ball of angst and pouting, but (though more difficult) turning that fear on its head and using it as the glorious fire under your ass to keep moving… well it keeps you alive and willing to attempt to make that life worthwhile. I get embarrassingly giddy when I see artists 40-50 years older than myself and their work has evolved exponentially over the course of their lives, continues to do so, and that even near the end, they feel their work still won’t be good enough after their dying breath. You can see that as a morbid and depressing thought, sure, OR you can see it as a delightful and life-affirming reminder that most people are never happy with who they are and what they’re capable of — but we get to spend our lifetime improving our skills and subsequently — ourselves. 

samspratt:

The feeling that we’ll never be “good enough” isn’t something to remove my dear grey-faced pudding-pop, it’s the cold, hard, and universal truth that pushes us forward whether we’re amateurs or masters of our crafts. 

If I feel I’m good enough at any point in my life, I’ll be both a massive disappointment to the tiny angel-winged/shoulder-mounted version of me, and have effectively cheated myself of exploring my own human capacity. Like many problems that people face, how you use the struggle will determine its effect on you. It’s shockingly easy to let the abstract fear of never amounting to anything cripple you into a sobbing, fetal-position-assuming, ball of angst and pouting, but (though more difficult) turning that fear on its head and using it as the glorious fire under your ass to keep moving… well it keeps you alive and willing to attempt to make that life worthwhile. 

I get embarrassingly giddy when I see artists 40-50 years older than myself and their work has evolved exponentially over the course of their lives, continues to do so, and that even near the end, they feel their work still won’t be good enough after their dying breath. You can see that as a morbid and depressing thought, sure, OR you can see it as a delightful and life-affirming reminder that most people are never happy with who they are and what they’re capable of — but we get to spend our lifetime improving our skills and subsequently — ourselves. 

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Under The Bridge

Meio-dia, os carros parados na Marginal. Motoristas alheios, cada qual em seu próprio mundo ar-condicionalizado. Um ou dois quilômetros à frente, um acidente afunilava o tráfego. Os veículos avançavam um centímetro por vez afoitos por qualquer espaço em branco.

Nenhum som se ouvia do lado de fora além dos motores e o ocasional ruído de música que escapava pelas frestas. Nem mesmo buzinas.

O asfalto queimava e esquentava o ar acima, que tremelicava como se desesperado pra se livrar do calor.

"Poder-se-ia fritar um ovo nesse chão" pensava alguém n’algum lugar. Sem mesóclises, provavelmente.

João, com o ar-condicionado quebrado, matutava de janela aberta mesmo. A ponte cruzava acima da pista em alguns metros, projetando sua sombra e dando um descanso do calor a alguns motoristas mais afortunados. “Só mais uns minutinhos”.

O tempo passava e João avançava de pouquinho em pouquinho.

Uma mosca entrou pela janela aberta. O rapaz brigou com ela por algum tempo até que sumisse. Talvez tivesse saído, ou só se resignara a ficar nos bancos traseiros; uma passageira passageira. Tanto fez, tanto faz.

Mais um metro.

E outro.

E ainda outro.

Pensou na família em Minas e, bem, seria um tantico melhor poder estar lá agora.

Mais um metro ou dois.

Finalmente, ao cabo de alguns “uns minutinhos”, o descanso desejado. Agora estava bem debaixo da ponte, cercado por uma gaiola de concreto e asfalto que pouco fazia para amenizar o calor.

Um zumbido se eleva do silêncio e cresce. João enxerga, pelo retrovisor, a moto se esquivando entre os carros. Se aproxima o motoqueiro e não percebe o espelhinho de João e do carro à esquerda quase colados, lhe negando passagem; se mete entre os dois, parando ao lado da janela aberta do rapaz.

Os dois se encaram, o visor entre eles, uma mosca sai pela janela, João suspira, dá uma olhada à frente, checa à sua direita, encosta o carro um pouco e abre uma folga entre os dois espelhos.

Um som, o som que a metrópole não houve, sai abafado, mas ainda reconhecível, do capacete do outro.

"Obrigado." - diz o motoqueiro antes de seguir viagem.

Tags: contos
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tastefullyoffensive:

[@robdelaney]
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Why can’t one just lay and die in peace?

Tags: espelho
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Sensação de que o tempo se fora e morrera.

Que a alma saíra pela boca e perecera, deixando pra trás o corpo vazio.

E os olhos fundos, tão fundos quanto o buraco dentro.

Tags: contos espelho