ever look at a piece of art and think of how a simple picture, painting, music, or book transcend time. For it to live through generations of generations, era after era, and yet, here it stays, alive and beating. as it captured the hearts of many before, now it beguiles us with the same intensity, even bringing us to tears, knowing that behind each stroke, note, and word is another person’s soul laid bare. gazing in the depths of the Art, we reconcile with the ghost of its creator, drifting and immortal. in a simple glimpse, we became a part of the undying
I am drunk with sleep. I know nothing but the lull of sweet slumber in my mind. I want to be truly awake, feel the pleasure of romance, of poetry idealized in the image of two hands intertwined. The silhouette of shadows coming as one. When will i experience the spark, catch fire and burn with small confessions everyday, as another candle ignites and eases itself in my wandering heart
oh the inherent homoeroticism of blood-soaked bodies clinging to one another, the red honey dripping in excess, forming a path of ruin and murder. eyes seeking salvation, the other clouded with carnal affection. the head is thrown back, revealing the neck of smooth, Vestal skin, the knife in their hand’s dig deeper– harder. there exists no room for a fair hero and muse. in the consummation of the crime, lay the crimson limbs of a villain and their tortured lover
bookstore cafes are so PRETTY!!! literally how often do you find a place that has books AND coffee!!! and when it rains you feel like you’re in a movie. a literal win
staring blankly into space before scribbling feverishly, a badly neglected iced latte, tidy notes with calligraphed headers, sheets of grid paper, pastel highlighters, a lofi playlist, the soft, sweet scent of vanilla, fairy lights and neon signs, heavily annotated textbooks.
DAGGERS ARE FUCKING PRETTY!!!!! THROWING KNIVES ARE AMAZING!!!! SWORDS ARE SO SEXY!!!!! I WOULD LIKE A COLLECTION OF POCKETKNIVES ONE DAY AND WHAT ABOUT IT!!!!
The buildings are old and need constant repairs, so something is always under construction. Despite this, you have never seen anyone working on the roped off parts of the buildings. They simply shut down for a month and then re-open, fixed. Odd.
The movement teacher won’t stop talking about “The Work.” There is no clear definition, but it involves The Self and also The Body.
No one sleeps. At all. Not the professors, not the students, not the administrative team, and definitely not the resident company members. Your chances of passing someone in the hall are the same at 4 AM as they are at 2 PM.
Someone says the word “Macbeth” and the room goes dead quiet. The whole floor goes dead quiet. You don’t hear a word spoken in the whole building for the rest of the day. The offender isn’t in class the next day, or the day after that. Eventually, you forget their name.
During midterm week, you dream fitfully about “The Work.” You wake up in a cold sweat, almost certain that you’ll figure out what it is next time.
Your movement final is to “encounter yourself.” You don’t know what this means, but now you keep catching glimpses of yourself in crowds of people. The date of your final draws nearer. You don’t know what you’re going to turn in. Your reflection in the mirror has started lagging a bit. You get the feeling you will be encountering yourself very soon.
“The Work,” says a man on the subway. You clench your hands in your pockets. You have to stay on alert.
The alumni list is long and lofty. The teachers refer to it constantly. “This could be you, right?” You run into one of the alumni on your way downtown. Their eyes are empty. They will not look at you.
You sit down to watch a company show. You come to an hour and a half later during the bows, program still in hand. Everyone else agrees it was a brilliant show. You are not sure what happened to you during it. You may never be sure.
[ text ID: I’m not what anyone thinks I am. I never was. I didn’t have the mouth to put it into words, to say what was wrong, to change the things I felt I needed to change. And every day it was difficult, walking around and knowing that people saw me one way, knowing that they were wrong, so completely wrong, that the real me was invisible to them. It didn’t even exist to them. So: If nobody sees you, are you still there? ]
i havent been able to drink a warm beverage while reading a book in quite sometime but now that i have an opportunity, im going to make some tea and listen to Kacey Musgraves and the rain hitting the outside of my window while reading. this, right here, is life.
my brain every two seconds: yoOoOouRE IN THE HO OU S E AND IIIIII AM HEEEEERE IN ThE C AAA Aaa a a R CUZ IIII JUST NEEEED A QUIEeEt PLA A A A CE WHerE I CAN SCREEEEAM HOW I LoVe yOu-
