Your Comfort Movie Is “dead Poets Society”, You’re In Love With The Smell Of Old Books, Poetry

it blows my mind that no matter the time or place, no matter how poor or rich, how happy or sad men were, we have always invented stories. to pass the time, to keep us company, to entertain and to teach; we never run out of characters, never run out of ideas. it's like our very souls can't bear the idea of not creating, of leaving tales untold

Quarantined dark academia :

Looking out to the porch waiting for your order of books to arrive, reading till 4AM, lazy sips of red wine, black coffee in the late afternoon, burning candles on all day, mozart playing quietly while you sketch in your well-loved notebook, your favourite novels falling apart as you read them for the hundredth time, dressing in scarves and tweed jackets for your daily walks, missing museums and galleries and libraries .

like

In the depth of those words, i intend to write a letter to myself but it came out as a death note instead, i was in awe-destruction. These words carry heavy bricks and burning rage, where should i put it down? I wanted to write about what a fine and a good day looks like but then i remember Van Gogh's saying, 'this sadness will last forever' and so i hold the pen and start pouring blood, spilled on the pages of my dear diary. These kind of stuff happens when you cant pull the trigger. Millions of thoughts written yet none could be able to elucidate the unsaid., it always went down the grave coverted in the dead bones.

- Marium.

evermore as an old storybook

@taylorswift @taylornation ♡

part 1 | part 2 | twitter

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Homenagem Fúnebre

É muita soberba nossa acreditar nessa realidade como a única e possível, e se ainda dúvida, pois bem, perceba: nossa alma, presa a essa carne de potência e ações limitadas, todas as noites viaja entre visões extraordinárias, que esse mundo, o qual chamamos de verdadeiro, nunca poderia nos presentear como experiência, é como uma promessa do que ainda não é e nem está, mas virá. Pelo dia passeamos entre pensamentos, ideias e o sonho dos acordados, aquele que nos tortura com idealizações e expectativas lindas, extravagantes, simples e mesquinhas desse mundo doloroso; e dói, apenas para provar como humanos e medíocres existimos aqui.

Nada nunca vai fazer-me desacreditar que a morte é tão somente outro nome para tratar a vida, por bem ou mal, um outro tipo de existência, mas com certeza, vida! Seremos livres depois dessa passagem? Assim eu espero: sendo uma singular e insignificante, causa e resultado de uma bela lúgubre implosão no universo, que o fim da minha existência seja um singelo feixe de luz dissipando na escuridão; e se tiver vazio, que eu preencha o nada então. Rogo em desespero, para nunca ser o miserável destinado a uma só e dura realidade, aquele imortalizado.

tis the damn season is so me. like. miss dorothea said "yes i have an on and off situationship with my ex whenever i go back to my hometown and we sleep in half the day and they call me babe for the weekend but when it's time for me to leave i will flee their bed without ever discussing what the fuck just happened because emotional intimacy is fucking hard and yes i would rather slip on a mask of indifference and false happiness than communicate to them that i fucking love them and i want them and i need them. i just can't. fucking. say that. so i'll go back to L.A. and the so-called friends who'll write books about me if i ever make it and wonder about the only soul that can tell which smiles i'm faking. and the heart I KNOW I'M BREAKING IS MY OWN !! TO LEAVE THE WARMEST BED I'VE EVER KNOWN !!" and she's so fucking real for that.

if they ever ask you about me tell them I was the only person in your entire life who ever loved you with honesty. and then, tell them how you broke my heart