“A Monster Is Not Such A Terrible Thing To Be. From The Latin Root Monstrum, A Divine Messenger Of

i do NOT like horror except for whatever the fuck mr naso is doing with the metamorphoses

rawest fucking hozier lyrics in no particular order:

i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight

heat of her breath in my mouth; im alive

i’d be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground

idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword

and when the earth is trembling on some new beginning with the same sweet shock of when adam first came

every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside

the stench of the sea and the absence of green are the death of all things that are seen and unseen

if I was born as a blackthorn tree i’d wanna be felled by you, held by you, fuel the pyre of your enemies

some like to imagine the dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do

before the wave hits, marveling at god; before he feels alone one final time and marries the sea

betray the moon as acolyte on first and fierce affirming sight

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me, I have never known hunger like these insects that feast on me

screaming the name of a foreigner’s god; the purest expression of grief

sweet and right and merciful, i’m all but washed in the tide of her breathing

but you don’t know the hell you put me through; to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you

so i try to talk refined for fear that you find out how i’m imagining you

my head was war, my skin was soaked, I called your name ‘til the fever broke

be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking

remember me, love, when i’m reborn as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

just humanities student things

getting overly defensive of your favourite historical / literary / classical figure

suddenly remembering how much knowledge there is to acquire and getting stressed about the overwhelming amount of stuff you don’t know

roman numerals: you either love them or you hate them

when your teacher is obsessed with one bit of the course and teaches you that for weeks then breezes over the rest

anachronisms

you’ve listened to so many in our times that melvyn bragg is basically your internal monologue

waking up in the morning with a desire to know everything about one specific thing that’s totally unrelated to everything you’re studying

‘ooo i know this word!’ she did not know that word

muddling up the actual history, the fictionalised versions of the actual history, and the fanfictionalised versions of the fictionalised versions of the actual history

‘what can this cartoon / movie / song / art tell us about x’

history students are over prepared for politics and classics students are over prepared for english lit

reading aloud in terrible accents in english lit

j s t o r

some handmade ceramic plates 🍊🌷my ig

i spend way too much time on spotify and thus have way too many playlists, but here are some of them as a thank you for 11k !!

neptune / soundtrack to a warm coffee on a sleepy afternoon 

pluto / 3am, lying upside down off the bed with dim phone light on your face

saturn / laughter, pillow fights and intentionally bad singing-along

mars / quiet piano floats through the window on a warm, windy evening 

lunar / during windows-down summer car rides with your friends

solar / fingers tracing on a thigh and quiet evening humming 

jupiter / gentle, wordless, beats to see you through revision 

eclipse / a soft voice paired with a guitar, and a cup of tea

earth / for dozing off amidst gentle yawns, wrapped in blankets

cosmos / a face amongst the crowd, stairs to the subway, city lights

galaxy / clink of glassware and muted murmurs amongst background jazz

sapph / for the girls who love girls

cappuccino / the feeling of a 9am coffee on a gently sunny morning 

instagram

update ;; here is part 2!

“You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.”

— Buddha

told my parents i miss archaeology and my mom was, very sympathetically, like: “do you want to dig holes in the garden?” and i was like. yes. i want to dig holes in the garden.

Not to sound Romantic or anything, but I too have a striking fascination with the irrational, the demonic and the grotesque.

Thinking about her.

The university library that has once offered me refuge and motivation, now closed and empty.

russian classics aesthetic

Brothers Karamazov: orthodox monasteries, deep woods, starry nights, the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter, piles of books, the sound of shattering glass, ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm, the smell of earth, a crowd of people dressed in black, distant murmurs, emptied streets, the fear of walking alone in dusk

Crime and Punishment: coldness of the skin against a blade, slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands, a red stain blooming on white fabric, lonely steps in a corridor, the slow dripping of water, looking out of the window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table, listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats, too many stairs, the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind word

The Idiot: classical statues, wealth covered with dust, a dark house tainted with inherited madness, an unsettling feeling, long walks in a park, useless chatter, a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench, a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book, the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around, looking at cloudless sky  

Anna Karenina: fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight and white curtains, the sensation of velvet against skin, pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people

War and Peace: a glass of wine, the brightness of  a crystal chandelier, white lace, a raging snow storm, the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room, indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, the sound of a saber being drawn, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing, the sweet smell of strawberries, a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder

The Master and Margarita: the chaos of a lively city, ambient jazz in expensive restaurants, jumping on a moving tram, the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase, leaning out of the window, shelves stacked with books, a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky, laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind

Eugene Onegin: a lonely mansion, reading a book in the parlor, faint piano melody lingering in falling silence, long evenings, passing seasons, discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame, quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded, bright mornings, footprints in snow, a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby   

A Hero of Our Time: byronic boredom, getting up late in the afternoon, the hidden unspeakable sadness of existence, shakespeare’s tragedy opened next to untouched breakfast, cigarette smoke, polished boots, walking with one’s coat wide open letting the night chill break through to the bone, carved wooden chair, fading warmth of the ashes late in the evening, the thought of farewell  

Fathers and Sons: birch groves, morning mist, moss covered stones near a  moor, scientific books, white roses, cheap champagne, shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony, a maladroit cello sonata, freshly mowed grass, leaving thoughts come and go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch, longing for the future   

Doctor Zhivago: a strange feeling of loss, writing poems in a diary, traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon, a scarf brightly embellished with flowers, a glass of water, two people listening each on the other side of the door, a threadbare jacket, the tempting void, the evanescent serenity of yesterday  

Dead Souls: horses in a merry gallop, delicious smells mingled, grotesque and bizarre tragedy, luxurious attire cheap soul, masks, a perfumed love letter, the triumph of sarcasm, an unattached wheel rolling down a dusty road, the atmosphere of commedia dell’ arte, puzzling speeches, a baffling caricature drawn on a handkerchief   

Cherry Orchard: a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar, the unsettling need for change, a mirror reflecting full moon, the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance, a piano out of tune