Langsung ke konten utama

Camille Monet for Claude Monet




Oh, how it feels to be someone’s muse—to live in their thoughts, to move their hands in art, to be the reason beauty takes form


To exist not just in their world, but in their work—their sketches, their melodies, their quiet thoughts between moments. There’s something timeless about that kind of presence, something unspoken and golden.


Like Camille Monet did for Claude Monet. There’s something beautiful about inspiring art simply by being loved, and I hope one day, I can be that source of beauty and emotion for someone too. I want to be remembered in brushstrokes and feeling.


To be looked at the way an artist sees their favorite subject—not for perfection, but for the way light falls across your face, for the way your silence says everything. I want to be the color that changes with the seasons in someone’s painting. To be loved so deeply, so gently, that their hands cannot help but create. What a beautiful kind of immortality that is.


—vic

Komentar

Postingan populer dari blog ini

Supernova

  Million bulbs in the void, bursts into a piece as its light disperse, like a supernova, we dwell in the fading light, fight against gravity and grow red, restart, become blue with fury, sedated by dark, concourse into the blackhole, turning it into a singularity, succumbing to the demise, reconciled with eternity. We were once scintilation, before we collapse into one, so what are we now? -vic

What Remains After The Great Gatsby-Scott Fitzergald

  I decided to read—and eventually buy— The Great Gatsby  after Haruki Murakami recommended it in his memoir  What I Talk About When I Talk About Running . Murakami wrote: “The Great Gatsby is a truly extraordinary novel. I never tire of its story, no matter how many times I read it. It is a work of literature that enriches you each time you open it. Every rereading reveals something new, something fresh.” At first, the story felt painfully slow. I even put the book down for almost two weeks—despite its slim length of just over a hundred pages. Jazz Age America, seen through Nick Carraway’s eyes, appeared hollow to me: a world filled with etiquette, polite conversations, and quiet arrogance. Everything shifted the moment Nick met Jay Gatsby. Something clicked. From that point on, I could no longer stop turning the pages. Gatsby stood apart from the people of East Egg and West Egg—mysterious, hopeful, and perhaps the only character who possessed a sincere emotional core in...

O, distant memory

How’s life, O distant memory? With hesitant steps I try to come closer You seemed reluctant to draw near. and I guess I can understand. You kept the space just as it is, But only for tonight Maybe you’ll let us talk about world’s history and conspiracy theories, and you will listen to my rumbles until dawn comes. But I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. The voice of sunrise arrives, and it becomes the end of our conversation. What’s new, O distant memory? Too late to greet you, ain’t I? You seem to drift farther along our broken line. Yet for now, let me hold you in my hand. We’ll shoot the bull about the parallel universe we used to dream of— because in this universe, we’ve wasted so much time. But I guess what happens, happens. I let you drift away through the clouds. I let myself stay still in possibility and impossibility. Will I always be reminiscing you? Will I find my way to you? O, distant memory Wander home to the silent shore  —vic