#romantic academia
Bathed in the soft glow of lantern light
Manifesting sweet summer dreams
“the late afternoon sunlight, warm as oil, sweet as childhood…”
let’s run away together
Jewellery details
Oxford snow day! Ahhhh it was so beautiful and peaceful this morning.
(Photos my own, please credit if used)
e t h e r a l
Floral details
Head empty, just sunlight pouring through stained glass windows
“primavera” by sandro botticelli.
I yearn for letters even in 21st century therefore, to all the people who follow me here and even those of you who don’t, write to me. How was your day, how are things difficult and how lame life sounds, rant to me. In that same lovely format of a letter. You can post it as a question to me, my inbox is as always open as heaven’s gate is for crestfallen angels.
With love,
And much love.
love the empty feeling that seizes my heart everytime i finish reading a book
you’re in her dms, she’s in my delusional scenarios
it is currently twelve twenty three at night. i took five shots of vodka from the bottle of a man named chris, whom i met at the bus stop for the first time tonight. we took shots, smoked our respective cigarettes, and then sat on separate ends of the bus- the beginning and ending of something great occured tonight. i can’t get my thoughts into a single train, so perhaps this is all for now. perhaps you will hear from me again tonight.
the fact of the matter is that only one of these were meant to be posted today, but my mind is restless and i must write if i ever wish to sleep. to disclose a bit about me, i am a trans man, and a gay one at that. i am a legal adult, though it feels no different. sure, i can drive a car and work overnight and perhaps even die for my country if i do so choose (o be clear, i do not) but i cannot purchase nicotine, alcohol, or marijuana. what kind of adult can’t fuel his own vices? though i am allowed to write completely unchecked, and i suppose that is a vice of it’s own, in a way only those who write the way i write will understand. i fear you will find me pretentious by the way i speak when i write, but i assure you, it’s all persona. i suppose it’s nothing more than an attempt to feel superior to myself, if im honest.
i work in eleven hours and twenty six minutes and have yet to close my eyes even once. i work a kitchen job- i know, not what you’d think by what ive given you about myself so far.
to give you more about myself, i am autistic. i suppose the label would be high functioning, but i hate most label. i have verbal and physical tics and call myself a slur far too often because of it, though only ones i can reclaim, thankfully. i am also diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, as well as dissociative identity disorder. worry not, i am the host of the system and no one else will write to you here; this space is simply my own. if i ever refer to the system, i will call it the aether system, though likely will never explain why.
returning to the topic of vices, i pray i return to mine soon. caffeine, nicotine, whatever yours may be, i pray you find closure in whichever way you desire- sobriety or continued use, that’s up to you. ive found sobriety doesn’t work for me.
have you ever considered why we create? writing, painting, drawing, composing, sewing, growing, et cetera. why do humans so inherently feel the desire to create everything around us? the biblical god tells us we were meant to live, procreate, and die, simple as. but yet, we have created tools and sciences and cities and medicines. museums, art galleries, jewelers, florists. we create buildings to house people creating whatever it is they please, whatever their hands may excel at, and we blink not a single eye. humans came from nothing- no written language, no history that we can pinpoint a start, nothing, but yet, all we have we have created! human hands have created miracles in what started as nothing more than water, air, and soil; molecules we couldn’t see now visible under glass screens that we crafted so intricately. even today, we create what a decade ago we couldn’t dream of! we outdo the old masters of art and the author’s we know by heart, create new poems instead of just quoting the classics! we never cease to create, but when will we discover why we do so?
we take gold and diamonds that mother earth does freely provide and create materialistic items to declare the love we have created with one another, pick flowers to make dyes and paints and make the world beautiful in hues it already owns. we take what is provided and believe that it is infinite, that we will roam the earth forever, so long as we continue to create. we create theories about what created the world, about what created us, but we may never know- i don’t believe im content dying without knowing.
when i was eighteen i stood in the streets of a small town in guatemala, arms outstretched to embrace the torrential downpour that both ended a drought and flooded the fields; i found comfort in the way the fabrics draped over my body clung to my frame as every stitch became waterlogged. i laughed at the feeble attempts of the sun to ring out the clouds and cease the steady drips. i reveled in the cold weight holding my body down to earth whilst i allowed my mind to wander amongst the clouds, and i felt free.
see, in the twenty years, four months, and sixteen days that i have lived upon this earth, i have felt the wire bars of cages seeming to close in on me, believing i was chained to the floors of seemingly permanent prison, and i have felt the drip of melted wax and glue as the sun freed the feathers from my shoulders as i tried to fly- i suppose icarus was not lesson enough for i. my own hands have built my prisons and my own mind has declared me the loser in a war against myself but i have fought to find ground safe enough to grow my roots and reach out to the skies again and i have found home in the fit of my own ribcage and i hide no skeletons in my closet, and i feel i can rest.
- this was never meant to carry the energy of spoken word or sloppy poetry; allow me to return to my initial train of thought.
in the minutes it has taken me to write of freedom and home, my mood has dropped significantly- a common occurrence, these mood swings of mine. perhaps by the end of of this section, ill find myself in a high again!
perhaps these words of nothing more than the musings of a meandering mind, but i feel the need to expel them from my head and into yours; you see, i am running out of space in this mind of mine. perhaps ill tell you the stories it holds one day, if you gain my trust. there’s a rather large moth contained in these same walls as i but i fear he may soon leave me to my own devices- each flit of flight brings him nearer to the opened window. i ought to help him, shouldn’t i? but i do dread being alone so desperately. mayhaps he’ll linger until the lights go out.
i oft find myself pondering moths- their flight causes such a buzz and one might imagine them quite strong due to the noise, but just a touch to their wings can leave them grounded. how sad to be so easily broken- though us humans are no stronger. it’s nearly five in the morning as i type these final words and it seems my drink has found itself empty, so i will take my leave and hope to dream tonight.
in the dead of the night, often i think of missed opportunities. fantasies that could have been moments turned memories. a split second of doubt that erased a friendship, lost touch with a darling one, now a stranger and nothing more. if only i danced with fire, talks beneath the setting sun, silent walks with the words of the dead, our omission to companionship, and camaraderie, and love so severe, would appear apparent in sunken eyes. if only i leapt without thinking, for once, i could’ve known the secrets of the universe and be with a person that finally, only understood me.
Sonder. Its the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as you do. We may feel as if we alone precedes this world. We strive to be the main character. When in fact, we all have our differences. Life for me may feel like I’m living in a Donna Tartt novel. On the other hand, the eclectic old man I often see in my local bookstore would say that he is a lone ranger fighting off wicked men from the Wild West. The said old man is just one of the many figures I distinctly remember in my book-hunting escapades. These strangers— those I often see in bookstores made me realize that I am many things in a person’s life. A Hero. Villain. or simply a spectator.
