We Are But Wayward Leaves, scattered To The Air by An Indifferent Wind.

summer haze: the slow march of the day, a golden glow from the heat outside, a lingering kiss on your cheek, languorous music from back porches, the juice of ripe apricots, fading tan marks, pages of poetry books, beige bathing suits while sunbathing

My relationship with time is complicated. I either feel like four hours is two minutes or I feel like five minutes is twelve hours. Months don't make sense because some of them feel like they take four months and others don't feel like months at all. I could've sworn I was 16 eight years ago and I feel like I've been alive at least 74 years and this month doesn't feel like January because I'm still in the same mental state as I was in November.

That time of year

I actually went out and socialised today 😌

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

John Keats in Rome

Over the Garden Wall (2014)

everytime my seasonal depression kicks in i feel like persephone's mother watching her decend to hades, feeling the joy & hope draining from me with every minute darker the days get.

Reading by the window while it rains

Varsha Lad on Instagram