A New Thing Unfolding♡

Do you ever think your obsession with books leads to feeling absolutely sickening wit how bland your life is? Especially in comparison with dark academia books in which there is a group of people they babble abt poetry and all their words have underlying meaning laden wit an unspoken secret only those in the group know abt. 

I’m sorry if this is just an incoherent rant it is 2:30 am and I haven’t slept in 36 hours. But hey, at least my sleep schedule radiates dark academia energy.  

tumblr is so quite. all other social medias have this chaotic loud energy and here is like "shh dude, calm down", i think is because nobody really cares about going viral, no one cares about their toughts being shared, they just write them anonimously, kinda like a coping mechanism

i will turn you into a fucking pdf if you dont stop

Desensitised?

A scream erupted outside as I was at my desk on warm Thursday evening. I went about my tasks; A scream erupted at midnight as I was scrolling through my phone. I went on with my leisure time; unbothered I could on with the number of times something as such had already occurred, but could I even recall? I can however, recall a shrill cry of pain I had heard two days ago and I was about to go on…

To be a self-sustaining woman. To be a candid woman. To be an aware woman. To be a private woman. To be a woman for no one other than myself.

//hello/goodbye//

|AUTUMN 2020|

|OCTOBER 6|

15:31: Cloudy, blue skies and a constant feeling of reaching out; an impulse to grasp and hold onto your hand and caress it with feather-soft touches.

You’ve always been my favourite cup of hot coffee on the chilliest of winter nights, my ‘conversations in the dark’ and of course, my heartiest hug after bad days.

Still,

You’re the hardest to write about.

You’re the…

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I've listened multiple times only reputation, lover, folklore and evermore, so I don't think I qualify as a swiftie. But this woman is truly a poet. This 4 albums are so different and they give each this very specific vibe.

reputation

reputation feels like driving around at 4 am. Are you angry? Sad? Happy? You don't know, you just feel. You want to be numb, to ignore the pain, but you're so fucking alive. Every emotion gives you this energy that just screams at you: "Live. Live even if you'd rather be dead. Live just to spite them. Live because you can, you breathe, you sing, you scream, you feel". Reputation is the rush of life when darkness suffocates you.

Lover

Lover is returning home, after you visited your grandparent or parents. It's 3 pm on a Sunday, you're walking and you just have this skips in your steps. You should be sad, tomorrow is Monday, but you can't. You're just so happy. That kinda happiness you had or dreamed about as a kid. It's something old , but so new. A forgotten emotion that you scream at the world.

folklore

folklore is sunrise. It's past sadness, past heartbreak that doesn't hurt anymore. It's melancholy, it's remembering that pain, that anger in the light of a new day, of a new life. It's sad, but it's the past. You fall, you hurt and you survive. Life has an end, so does the pain. It's reminiscing just because you could go through everything, and you can remember. You'll live despite or with that sadness. It's you choice.

evermore

evermore is the evening, that red light painting when the sun is setting. Just like folklore it's reminiscing of past heartbreak and sadness, only this time you hold on to it. It's not a new day, it's the end. You can't let it go. It hurts, oh how it hurts, but you just can't, you don't know how to live without that pain. It's the evening, you're alone and that gentle piano leads your mind down a path of despair. But that's alright. Your bleeding hearth is panting the sky.

I asked my kids if they’d prefer a secret garden or a secret library and my son shook his head and was like “I don’t trust the secret gardeners and librarians”

“We want ‘poems that kill.’ Assassin poems, poems that shoot guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys and take their weapons leaving them dead.”

— Amiri Baraka

“you, your fingers would dance over my skin like letters bouncing in poetry, your eyes would skim mine for the possibility of prose in your name, for words that you would seek comfort in. why do you look at me as if you were waiting for me to paint you in syllables and poetic phrases to beautify you? was it not enough that i signed off every emotion in my heart to your name? my love, my wrath, my every figment of existence, every thread that i hang upon—all in your name? your name is sprawled against my heart. my heart may be in pieces, but every vein spills blood with your name dripping off it. you’ve consumed me completely, love, and you search a poetification of yourself in my eyes? here. have it on paper. for permanence.”

— @coffeeacademia