The main reason I haven't blogged an Inspiration Strikes for awhile is because its been about 2 months of solid depression for me, but thankfully I feel like I'm finally surfacing back into the real world. One of the biggest things I lose when I am depressed is inspiration and love of my hobbies, which includes blogging.
Here are a few things inspiring me this week:
(Or what my tumblr, pinterest and instagram looks like if you remove the silliness, text posts and pictures of animals)
"Don't Lump With Me." A gorgeous painting of a humanoid Lumpy Space Princess from the awesome Adventure Time cartoon by all-the-little-foxes. Everything from the colour, style and content touches me about this piece.
This story about one fan's experience meeting Patrick Stewart really made me tear up. His work for women and children suffering domestic violence as well as the work he does for soldiers with PTSD is all inspired by his own experiences. I'd really give the link a read, there is also great a video in the link too.
This wonderful article imagining what a perfume based on individual dead authors would be comprised of. I would defnitely like to wear "Sylvia Plath: Freshly washed linen, vanilla, daffodils, lavender"
I know less than nothing about Twilight, but I do adore Kristen Stewart, she's a refreshingly genuine person and has said some truly wonderful things that have really touched me. So, haters come at me, if you're attacking her for not smiling or being a pretty object I will destroy you!
This wonderful series of photographs is by Kyle Thompson and really they're beautiful enough on their own to warrant inspiration, but notbecauseofvictories on tumblr added this enchanting story to the mix:
"Once upon a time, there were three siblings.
The eldest, a son, was a saint. The holy fire lit him from within, burned him to an ashen shell. He wandered across ice, through water, his twisted and scorched feet barely touching the ground, trailing steam. Where he walked, the world emptied of color, and his grey-eyed followers went on behind him.
The second child, a daughter, was a martyr. For God, she wound her legs with barbed wire and walked the earth, filled and vacated by the wind, eyes burned unseeing blue. Where she bled, the ground grew green and fertile. Her bones were picked apart by birds, and a cathedral built over them.
The youngest child was a writer. She wore Doc Martins and wandered around in an omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke. She liked vodka, words like quaintrelle and metanoia, Russian novels. At night, she stood on her balcony and screamed obscenities to a God she did not believe in.
(God came to her in the grey dawnlight, whispered, we do not buy our own innocence. She did not remember it, upon waking.)"
What is inspiring you at the moment, my doves?