#melancholia — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #melancholia, aggregated by home.social.
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A Walk Down Buray Avenue
September 12, 2021
It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.
The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.
I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.
Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.
I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.
These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.
But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.
I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.
These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.
My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.
And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.
It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.
And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.
#books #DinagatIslands #family #fiction #MasterRuben #melancholia #SanJose #shortStory #writing -
A Walk Down Buray Avenue
September 12, 2021
It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.
The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.
I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.
Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.
I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.
These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.
But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.
I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.
These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.
My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.
And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.
It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.
And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.
#books #DinagatIslands #family #fiction #MasterRuben #melancholia #SanJose #shortStory #writing -
A Walk Down Buray Avenue
September 12, 2021
It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.
The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.
I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.
Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.
I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.
These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.
But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.
I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.
These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.
My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.
And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.
It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.
And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.
#books #DinagatIslands #family #fiction #MasterRuben #melancholia #SanJose #shortStory #writing -
A Walk Down Buray Avenue
September 12, 2021
It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.
The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.
I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.
Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.
I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.
These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.
But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.
I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.
These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.
My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.
And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.
It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.
And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.
#books #DinagatIslands #family #fiction #MasterRuben #melancholia #SanJose #shortStory #writing -
Movie TV Tech Geeks #Movie #ScienceFiction #Melancholia #Thriller 7 Greatest Sci-Fi Psychological Thrillers, Ranked http://dlvr.it/TSVNtt
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Melancholia is the best Science Fiction Film Ever
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
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Melancholia (2011) - It's the end of the world, again. This time the hosts are like the two worlds slowly colliding while they discuss this 2011 drama.
Depressing, isn't it? #MovieReview #Melancholia #Podcast #EndOfTheWorld -
Melancholia (2011) - It's the end of the world, again. This time the hosts are like the two worlds slowly colliding while they discuss this 2011 drama.
Depressing, isn't it? #MovieReview #Melancholia #Podcast #EndOfTheWorld -
Melancholia (2011) - It's the end of the world, again. This time the hosts are like the two worlds slowly colliding while they discuss this 2011 drama.
Depressing, isn't it? #MovieReview #Melancholia #Podcast #EndOfTheWorld -
Melancholia (2011) - It's the end of the world, again. This time the hosts are like the two worlds slowly colliding while they discuss this 2011 drama.
Depressing, isn't it? #MovieReview #Melancholia #Podcast #EndOfTheWorld -
Melancholia (2011) - It's the end of the world, again. This time the hosts are like the two worlds slowly colliding while they discuss this 2011 drama.
Depressing, isn't it? #MovieReview #Melancholia #Podcast #EndOfTheWorld -
Coming soon to Time Shifters...
Kirsten Dunst, Alexander Skarsgard, Charlotte Gainsbourg, and Kiefer Sutherland all try to continue their lives as the planet Melancholia is heading directly towards Earth.Leave any thoughts below!
#MovieReview #Podcast #Melancholia
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IZGwvxhXvw -
So I actually watched both movies #AnotherEarth and #Melancholia (found old tweets as evidence 😆). Somehow I remembered the former much better. Was ruminating over them this past week when I came across the #EveryoneDies audiobook - planning to listen to it on the long flight to Shanghai. Yeah, one of those moods..
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Currently listening to a robot read Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy.
The delivery is really bringing me down.
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Hemi Rudner - Melancholia My Love.
חמי רודנר - מלנכוליה אהובתי.
https://farside.link/www.youtube.com/watch?v=D27QdQJiNBE
#depression
#hebrew
#hemirudner
#israel
#melancholia
#music
#song
#דיכאון
#חמירודנר
#מוזיקה
#מלנכוליה
#פסטיבלשירידיכאון
#שיר -
Free download codes:
Whiskey General - Wildfire
"For those navigating the chaos of life, a powerful reminder that love and resilience can guide us through even the darkest storms."
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Kirsten Dunst Intriguingly Teases Role In Ruben Östlund’s ‘The Entertainment System Is Down’: “I Bared A Part Of Myself” – Red Sea
#Festivals #News #KirstenDunst #Melancholia #RedSeaFilmFestival #TheEntertainmentSystemIsDownhttps://deadline.com/2025/12/kirsten-dunst-teases-role-ostlund-entertainment-bared-1236635678/
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“We are whole-hearted extroverts; the penalty of restricting oneself is anything from neurosis to down right lunacy; in particular, melancholia. You ask whether these remarks do not conflict with my repeated definition of Initiation as the Way In. Not at all; the Inmost is identical with the All. … When the entire system of the Universe is conterminous with your comprehension, ‘inward’ and ‘outward’ become identical.”
#ableToPerceive #aleisterCrowley #all #allTheLayers #anything #askWhether #attention #book #comprehension #conflict #constantlyIncreasing #conterminous #control #directedOutward #doMore #downRight #enlarging #entireSystem #everyStep #exercise #extroverts #fromWithin #GHQ_ #identical #inParticular #inevitably #initiation #inmost #inward #lunacy #magickWithoutTears #melancholia #moving #neurosis #notAtAll #object #obviously #ofTheUniverse #outward #penalty #quote #rank #remarks #repeatedDefinition #restrictingOneself #scope #seeMore #Self #skirmishingPatrol #surround #theUniverse #theWayIn #travelInward #vision #wholeArmy #wholeHearted
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5 Evocative Quotes From Nobel Prize In Literature Laureate László Krasznahorkai’s Novel The Melancholy Of Resistance
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Free download codes:
Whiskey General - Wildfire
"For those navigating the chaos of life, a powerful reminder that love and resilience can guide us through even the darkest storms."
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Sad to say, listening to the world burn around me, the most comforting quote I can think of is Kirsten Dunst in #Melancholia: “Earth is evil; there’s no need to grieve for it.”
Bloody hell … -
From: blenderdumbass . org
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
Read: https://blenderdumbass.org/reviews/melancholia_is_the_best_science_fiction_film_ever
#melancholia #depression #mentalhealth #film #movies #cinemastodon #sciencefiction #scifi #larsvontrier #review #KirstenDunst #BradyCorbet #TheBrutalist
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From: blenderdumbass . org
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
Read: https://blenderdumbass.org/reviews/melancholia_is_the_best_science_fiction_film_ever
#melancholia #depression #mentalhealth #film #movies #cinemastodon #sciencefiction #scifi #larsvontrier #review #KirstenDunst #BradyCorbet #TheBrutalist
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From: blenderdumbass . org
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
Read: https://blenderdumbass.org/reviews/melancholia_is_the_best_science_fiction_film_ever
#melancholia #depression #mentalhealth #film #movies #cinemastodon #sciencefiction #scifi #larsvontrier #review #KirstenDunst #BradyCorbet #TheBrutalist
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From: blenderdumbass . org
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
Read: https://blenderdumbass.org/reviews/melancholia_is_the_best_science_fiction_film_ever
#melancholia #depression #mentalhealth #film #movies #cinemastodon #sciencefiction #scifi #larsvontrier #review #KirstenDunst #BradyCorbet #TheBrutalist
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From: blenderdumbass . org
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
Read: https://blenderdumbass.org/reviews/melancholia_is_the_best_science_fiction_film_ever
#melancholia #depression #mentalhealth #film #movies #cinemastodon #sciencefiction #scifi #larsvontrier #review #KirstenDunst #BradyCorbet #TheBrutalist
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Free download codes:
Whiskey General - Wildfire
"For those navigating the chaos of life, a powerful reminder that love and
resilience can guide us through even the darkest storms."https://getmusic.fm/l/0TpY3G [https://getmusic.fm/l/0TpY3G]
#bandcampcodes [https://mastodon.social/tags/bandcampcodes] #rock
[https://mastodon.social/tags/rock] #alternativerock
[https://mastodon.social/tags/alternativerock] #melancholia
[https://mastodon.social/tags/melancholia] #music
[https://mastodon.social/tags/music] -
Free download codes:
Whiskey General - Wildfire
"For those navigating the chaos of life, a powerful reminder that love and resilience can guide us through even the darkest storms."
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From: blenderdumbass . org
I don't think you think of Science Fiction often when thinking about Lars Von Trier. Yet, his 2011 masterpiece Melancholia is one of, if not the best, science fiction film(s) ever.
Read: https://blenderdumbass.org/reviews/melancholia_is_the_best_science_fiction_film_ever
#melancholia #depression #mentalhealth #film #movies #cinemastodon #sciencefiction #scifi #larsvontrier #review #KirstenDunst #BradyCorbet #TheBrutalist
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These three albums never seize to move me.
Anaïs Mitchel - Young Man in America (2012) (And actually also her title-less album from 2022...wow).
Sufjan Stevens - Carrie & Lowell (2015)
Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now (2000)
#Melancholia #Music #SufjanStevens #JoniMitchell #AnaisMitchell
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Smith Smith "Melancholia"
Collection Les Spectres**************************
SMITH SMITH COLLAGE :http://smithsmith.bigcartel.com/
#smithsmith #smithsmithart #maecenearts #art #culture #ghost #spectre #larsvantrier #melancholia #gwenethpaltrow #collage #collagen #collagepro #collages #collagework #collagelife #collageart #collagenstar #collageartist #collageartwork #collageartistsoninstagram #collagemaker #nantes #france
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The Gaze.
Original artwork by Graham Bates.
#art #drawing #stippling #inkpen #pointillism #mastodonart #mastoart #elongation #existentialennui #dysphoria #grey #mysticalstate #unknowing #meditativeart #androgyny #muse #gaze #melancholia #snapseed #goddess #connection #disconnection
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"Few of us want to admit it, but what we’re experiencing is the horror of resignation, the humiliation of captivity and the shame of collaboration."
#solastalgia #melancholia #FossilFuels #climateemergency #EcoCrisis #War
https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2024/sep/30/our-leaders-are-collaborators-with-fossil-fuel-colonialists-this-is-the-source-of-our-communal-dread -
No har eg byrja å kome inn i ei #JonFosse-grop. #Melancholia var tung, #DetErAles var kronglete, og no er #StengdGitar vanskeleg.
Eg har lest fleire gode samtidig som desse, dog. #Naustet, #ToForteljingar, og #ProsaFråEinOppvekst var alle veldig bra.
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How #Avicenna Recognized #Melancholia and Mixed States—1000 Years Before Modern #Psychiatry
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Up high she stands on her gilded dais
so far above the daily fray
But all around is a frozen waste
and love and friendship she’ll never taste#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #sanssouci #potsdam #germany #winter #architecture #baroque #nikonphotography #nikonphoto #photography #fotografie
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Up high she stands on her gilded dais
so far above the daily fray
But all around is a frozen waste
and love and friendship she’ll never taste#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #sanssouci #potsdam #germany #winter #architecture #baroque #nikonphotography #nikonphoto #photography #fotografie
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Up high she stands on her gilded dais
so far above the daily fray
But all around is a frozen waste
and love and friendship she’ll never taste#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #sanssouci #potsdam #germany #winter #architecture #baroque #nikonphotography #nikonphoto #photography #fotografie
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Up high she stands on her gilded dais
so far above the daily fray
But all around is a frozen waste
and love and friendship she’ll never taste#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #sanssouci #potsdam #germany #winter #architecture #baroque #nikonphotography #nikonphoto #photography #fotografie
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Up high she stands on her gilded dais
so far above the daily fray
But all around is a frozen waste
and love and friendship she’ll never taste#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #sanssouci #potsdam #germany #winter #architecture #baroque #nikonphotography #nikonphoto #photography #fotografie
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A king once built himself a house
and called it Sans Souci
In French that means it’s free from cares
but cares are all I see#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #longexposure #potsdam #germany #snap_europe_germany #snap_europe #architecture #baroque #photography #fotografie #nikonphotography #nikonphoto
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A king once built himself a house
and called it Sans Souci
In French that means it’s free from cares
but cares are all I see#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #longexposure #potsdam #germany #snap_europe_germany #snap_europe #architecture #baroque #photography #fotografie #nikonphotography #nikonphoto
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A king once built himself a house
and called it Sans Souci
In French that means it’s free from cares
but cares are all I see#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #longexposure #potsdam #germany #snap_europe_germany #snap_europe #architecture #baroque #photography #fotografie #nikonphotography #nikonphoto
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A king once built himself a house
and called it Sans Souci
In French that means it’s free from cares
but cares are all I see#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #longexposure #potsdam #germany #snap_europe_germany #snap_europe #architecture #baroque #photography #fotografie #nikonphotography #nikonphoto
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A king once built himself a house
and called it Sans Souci
In French that means it’s free from cares
but cares are all I see#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #longexposure #potsdam #germany #snap_europe_germany #snap_europe #architecture #baroque #photography #fotografie #nikonphotography #nikonphoto
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What makes you noble?
To be born a king?
To have others
your praises to sing?
No — nobility flows
from the joy you bring#art #poemaday #poem #poetry #caption4reflection #melancholy #melancholia #moody #potsdam #germany #architecture #baroque #photography #fotografie #nikonphotography #nikonphoto
