Am I The Only One Pissed About Chat Gpt Creating Ghibli Images? Like, No Doubt The Filter Looks Okay

Am i the only one pissed about chat gpt creating ghibli images? Like, no doubt the filter looks okay and people are enjoying it but ghibli holds a really special place in my heart and it kind of makes me feel like this whole thing just diminishes the significance and pure essence that real Ghibli art holds.

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shunrehihosumedha

1 month ago

He does not know, that the world pauses for him, breath held,

Watching the art of him falling, calling it beauty While he calls himself blank.

If only you knew, how spellbound I am for you, watching the chaos of you, turning into stillness,

Watching your sorrow as it knows how to make everything shine.

(Darjeeling’21)

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shunrehihosumedha

1 month ago

Simone de Beauvoir, from a diary entry featured in Diary of a Philosophy Student

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shunrehihosumedha

3 months ago

Delete bumble or hinge , find your soulmate on tumblr

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shunrehihosumedha

4 months ago

The daughter in the picture♥️🧿

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shunrehihosumedha

4 months ago

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shunrehihosumedha

1 month ago

— natalie díaz, from “american arithmetic”, postcolonial love poem (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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shunrehihosumedha

2 months ago

In the labyrinthine corridors of my mind,

Where shadows of unspoken truths linger like specters in the twilight,

There exists a cacophony of sentiments yearning for articulation,

Yet I find solace in the delicate art of restraint.

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shunrehihosumedha

3 weeks ago

to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. by A History of My Brief Body by Billy-Ray Belcourt

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shunrehihosumedha

4 months ago

"tell me it was real, because it was real to me."

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shunrehihosumedha

4 weeks ago

“Et in Arcadia ego”

(Even in Arcadia, there am I)

I will tear my heart out; before this cathedral of flesh lets me go

The pink ribbon scars remain, delicate inscriptions of things I never dared say aloud

I have bled in silence, tried to scour regret with ritual and rainwater… but it clings, a second skin, soft as memory, heavy as guilt

My angel wings; once alabaster, now bound in velvet chains; a slow suffocation beneath borrowed holiness

They ache when the wind moves.

They remember flight.

My belly burns with the echo of choices, each one a blade turned inward, an inheritance of fire

There is no absolution here; only the architecture of longing, and the dust that gathers in the mouths of the dead.

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