Last night, I told my mother "I wish I was dead" in a fit of rage and winter clouded her eyes. But it wasn't white and it wasn't quiet, it resembled something like helplessness and rage. She was in pain and I knew I hurt her. I wanted to say something, anything, but how do you withdraw a declaration of war? How do you stop the bombs that already destroyed homelands? In that moment I remembered how she always told me that when she was a kid, she was too afraid to sleep with the lights on. Not because she was afraid of monsters, but because she feared her grandmother would die. Because when you're a kid, not seeing it means it doesn't exist anymore. I saw the winter in her eyes again and I knew I had switched off the light, she wasn't angry, she was afraid.
And I also remembered how she always told me I'd always be 3 years old for her, always a child, and for the first time, I heard in the voice of a three year old "I wish I was dead". My heart broke. And I wanted to hug her and hold her, tell her I was sorry, that I didn't mean it. Before I could move a hand, she left the room. The entire evening, I saw myself as she saw me, a 3 year old child. I saw the child hurt herself and cry herself to sleep every week, fight her friends with her tiny hands and two ponytails, I saw her depression and her anxiety, I saw her yell "I wish I was dead" and I knew. I knew. I wanted to shout through the walls, yell and cry and tell my mother that now I KNEW, but I didn't. I wept and wept until I heard a quiet knock and a soft familiar voice whispered, "Dinner is ready".
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire
I dream and I dream and I dream.
๐ข๐ ๐ฐ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ฏ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ๐๐ข๐ง๐ฌ, ๐ฆ.๐ฅ. ๐ซ๐ข๐จ
โ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ญ๐ธ๐ข๐บ๐ด ๐ด๐ถ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ต๐ณ๐บ, ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐ฆ๐ณ๐ค๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ด๐ด๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ท๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ๐ถ๐ฎ.โ
dark academia is when you have to read the crustiest pdf known to man
โIt isnโt Spring until you can plant your foot on twelve daisies.โ
- Cambridgeshire Saying
Source: Botanical Folktales of Britain and Ireland
IโM REVIVING THIS SERIES!
Day 3 coming up quite soon!
Questions To Ask People You Like:
Favourite classical authors?
Favourite poem?
Favourite book?
Preferred writing utensil?
Favourite place?
Favourite memory?
Most beautiful thing youโve ever seen?
Favourite library?
Favourite flower?
Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice?
Favourite quote?
Favourite Latin phrase?
British or American spelling?
Favorite obscure fact?
Favorite historical figure?
Favorite romance novel?
Favorite big city?
Favorite small town?
Favorite constellation?
Favorite university?
Favorite British town?
Favorite obscure author?
Favorite fabric pattern?
Favorite song?
Story of their first love?
Ideal plans for tomorrow?
Favorite old French author?
Favorite turn of phrase?
Favorite capitol or city hall?
Favorite old building?
Favorite museum?
Favorite book store?
Favorite folk tale?
Favorite historical story?
Favorite historical battle?
Oxford or Cambridge?
Edinburgh or London?
Favorite Italian town?
Favorite palace or castle?
Favorite noble family?
Favorite royal family?
Favorite century?
Ever written a love letter?
Favorite weather?
Tea or coffee?
If your name was Adelia, which nickname would you choose, Addie or Delia?
Favorite Greek, Roman, or Norse myth?
Opinion on Oxford commas?
Favorite word in a foreign language?
Favorite English word?
Favorite historical time period?
Favorite song lyric?
Favorite things?
ACHILLES AND THE LONDON BOY:
Photo Board
Center: James Leicester
Left: Diana Mayor
Center: Henrik Olsen
Left: Theo Fraser, Center: Alexander FitzDonald
Center: Alexander FitzDonald
Left: Theo Fraser, Right: Alexander FitzDonald
Left: James Leicester, Left Center: Henrik Olsen, Right Center: Theo Fraser, Right: Alexander FitzDonald
Back: Diana Mayor, Front: Alexander FitzDonald
Left: Alexander FitzDonald, Center: Theo Fraser, Right: Diana Mayor
Left: Alexander FitzDonald, Center: Diana Mayor, Left: Theo Fraser
A boy with eyes like glass jars swishing with waves of the blue abyss,
I wrote my pretty little poems
about a pretty little boy with starlight eyes,
moonshine hair.
The lives I regret to wish
that I had lived,
The girls.
Belgium, Switzerland.
French and Italian and American
Geneva, Brussels.
I try to say my life has changed;
Never the pretty little boy
with the odd Swiss accent,
and the lopsided smile,
and the shy, wry, understated wit.
Never again.