“I Can Listen No Longer In Silence. I Must Speak To You By Such Means As Are Within My Reach. You Pierce
“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W. I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening or never.”
―Jane Austen, Persuasion
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Spilled coffee on old letters written to old friends. Half burned pages left on the table. Listening to soft nostalgic music with a wicked smile. Sitting near the rear window while it rain at 3 am. Not shivering to the thunderstorms sound. Candle burning near the table when you type yet another aching poetry lines. Perfect distortion. Perfect melancholy.
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𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞/𝐮𝐬𝐞.
a country estate. with portraits and paintings and marble statues. great big dusty libraries filled with worn spines titled with embossed letters. gardens i can take walks around when my existence gets the best of me. flowers, hedges, pathways. nearby lakes. i wanna be rich not to be a modern socialite but to wear corseted dresses and take turns around the room. strawberries and champagnes and sunrises over the rolling hills. petrichor. dew. golden morning sunlight. fresh fruit. love, in every aspect of the word.
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"Dark academic?" More like "someone please help me holy shit I can't continue living like this and the only thing keeping me from falling off my rocker is literature."
" the love of your life isn't, always, the one you marry "
“Quando me perguntarem do que eu mais gostei, vou dizer que foi de você.”
— Cidade dos Anjos.
one of my favorite things about human physiology is the way our eyes change when we look at someone we love. our pupils dilate automatically like they do when it’s dark outside and they’re trying to let more light in. except now it’s the light of your favorite person. the edges of our eyes soften a little and they sometimes even get watery which we also can’t control. tears of joy. we tend to raise our eyebrows as if we’re trying to make our eyes bigger. trying to get a better vision and seeing all the details. we tend to blink less than usual just to make the moment last a bit longer. even if it’s just a second. or when you smile at someone with your entire face involved and your eyes just crinkle and create a sparkle in them. and it all happens so effortlessly and universally.
i just want to be one of those cute, aesthetically pleasing readers who’ve got their cardigans on and sip on their tea while reading by the fireplace but i always end up looking like a hot mess with my big stained hoodie, tied-up hair and dried up tears, trying to find good lighting at 3am so i can make out what i’m reading
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