Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
by Sylvia Plath
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself--- Infinite, green, utterly untouchable. Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also. They are my medium. The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights. A gray wall now, clawed and bloody. Is there no way out of the mind? Steps at my back spiral into a well. There are no trees or birds in this world, There is only sourness. This red wall winces continually : A red fist, opening and closing, Two gray, papery bags--- This is what I am made of , this and a terror Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietas. On a black wall, unidentifiable birds Swivel thier heads and cry. There is no talk of immortality among these! Cold blanks approach us : They move in a hurry.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Thursday, May 1, 2014
The way we have grown to see 'things' beyond the norm, beneath the surface, the fabric or matrix of a 'so-called society'.
Psychology and visual concepts in the 21st century.
Our experience in an ever-increasing technological age of ourselves and others.
May Features on Flickr
by Paulina Otylie Surys of London.