Dark Acadamia Aesthetic - Blog Posts
I swear I don't lack skills to communicate, I'm simply too tired to engage..
Guys, I'm really proud of this blog and really love you all. Your likes and re-blogs means a lot to me. 💗 ₊˚⊹
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Today, I encountered a little black girl who looked frail and seemed timid, and it nearly brought me to tears. There was something in her eyes, a glint of quiet pain, of low self-esteem. She seemed afraid to speak, to take up space, to simply exist in the fullness of who she is. And in that moment, my mind instantly went to my younger sister. And of course, to my younger self. I see so much of myself in my little sister. I love her with everything in me, and I would do whatever it takes to shield her from the cruelty of the world—from my father's rage, from society’s judgment, from the harshness I was never protected from. I couldn’t save my younger self from all the things that broke me. The things that silenced me, made me shrink, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. So when I see little girls like that—like her—I feel this deep, aching need to protect them. I glanced at her multiple times today, and she might’ve thought I was judging her. I wish I could’ve told her I wasn’t. That I cared. That in a world where others might overlook her or treat her like she’s invisible, I see her. I would be there for her. But I couldn’t say it. Because that would've scared her off. I hope I see her again. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t this sensitive. I wish I could just numb myself just a little, so I wouldn’t have to feel so deeply all the time. But here I am, writing this with tears in my eyes. Empathy is starting to feel like a curse to me.
—A lady and Her Quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.
Sometimes I wonder if people even realize how cruel they can be without saying a word. The way they look at me—cold, dismissive, like I’m something to laugh at or pity. It’s not always about what they say; sometimes it’s just the way they carry themselves around me, like I’m less. I feel overlooked all the time, like I’m just floating in the background, waiting for someone to actually see me. And I hate how much I want to be seen, especially by him. I hate how I catch myself hoping for even a glance from him. It makes me feel pathetic, like I’m betraying myself just to feel worthy for a moment. These past few days, I’ve been so angry. Just simmering beneath the surface. I keep snapping in my head, getting irritated at everything. I’m starting to feel like the angry little girl I worked so hard to bury, the one who, for years, carried the weight of her father’s rage. I hate how deeply I feel things, how sensitive I am. Lately, I’ve been drowning. Not in a river, but under the weight of never feeling satisfied with life.
—A lady and Her Quill, Letters to Dead Children: Ophelia's Journal Entries
— Albert Camus
“In my restless dreams, I see that town. Silent Hill. You promised me you'd take me there again someday. But because of me, you were never able to. Well, I'm alone there now… In our “special place.” Waiting for you…" Waiting for you to come to see me. But you never do. And so I wait, wrapped in my cocoon of pain and loneliness. I know I've done a terrible thing to you. Something you'll never forgive me for. I wish I could change that, but I can't. I feel so pathetic and ugly lying here, waiting for you...
"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones"
― Alfred Stieglitz, My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz
“Shrinking in a corner, pressed into the wall; do they know I'm present, am I here at all? Is there a written rule book, that tells you how to be— all the right things to talk about— that everyone has but me? Slowly I am withering— a flowered deprived of sun; longing to belong to— somewhere or someone.”
― Lang Leav, Love & Misadventure
—Joan of Arc
The vibe my crush brings to the function ♥︎
The little orphan girl represented loneliness, sadness, being invisible. Emilia sat at the window as she watched another little girl get adopted—for the fourth time this week. She always wondered if something was wrong with her. She was aware that she was a bit odd. She liked things other kids didn’t. She read books about the stars and whispered to moths at night. She remembered the sound of rain more than the voices of the people who came and went. She wasn’t the kind of child who ran up to visitors with painted smiles and perfect manners. She stayed quiet. Observing. Feeling too much and saying too little. And maybe that was the problem. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and leaned her forehead against the window. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars passed. Clouds drifted. People chose. But never her. At least not yet.
—A lady and her quill, Life at St. Stephen's Orphanage.
Time is like grains of sand slipping through our fingers — the one thing in life we cannot bargain with; each lost moment gone forever. Yet I alone wander its hidden paths, reclaiming what others surrender.
—A lady and her quill, The Almanac of a Lost Time Traveler.
Hey loves .☘︎ ݁
My inbox is open for good vibes, deep thoughts, and casual chats. Feel free to drop in, say hi, or share a thought.
I’m always up for a good conversation. Just keep it kind and respectful, no weird stuffs. ˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚
"I love you. You may as well take my heart Catherine it's already full of you." "Please go!" "What is it? What's wrong my dear?" "You know nothing about me….you've known me only three weeks!" "Three weeks? Catherine I've known you all my life." "All your life?" "It's true, when I heard beautiful music I thought, 'she'd like that'. I looked at flowers knowing that one day I'd give them to you." "Oh stop, stop." "But for my heart there is another love that must come before you, my country."
—Masquerade,
Dangerously Yours
To the little girl who faded with the dying light of October, 1922— My dearest Cecilia, It is with unbearable grief that I write to you. Each passing day, I am forced to reconcile with the weight of your absence, haunted by the silence you left behind. Although it wasn’t my hands that took your life, my heart aches with regret— because in the silence of my heart, I have convinced myself that it was my fault.
—A lady and her quill, Letters to dead children.
The city was silently bloating in the hot sun, rotting like the thousands of bodies that lay where they had fallen in street battles. An oppressive, hot wind blew from the southeast, carrying with it the putrefying stench of decay. And outside the city walls, Death itself waited— in the persons of Titus, son of Vespasian, and sixty thousand legionnaires, who were anxious to gut the City of God.
—Francine Rivers, A Voice in the Wind (Mark of the Lion series).
"Why do you reject love" he asked. "I can't bring myself to accept love because I don't even know how to love myself gently. To be loved... I feel I must first be flawless in the mirror, in the mind, in a room full of strangers, in the quiet corners of my soul. How can I be someone's dream girl if I never feel good enough?" Silence lingered, heavy and unresolved.
—A lady and her quill, Notes to a boy I now resent
"Her heart was made of liquid sunsets". ⭒⛅₊ ⭒ -Virginia Woolf
Hi loves ‧｡⋆
.☘︎ ݁ About me: I'm Jacqueline, She/her, 20, Christian girl, CS major, part time water fairy(lol) 🧚🏽♂️₊˚.༄
.☘︎ ݁ Current hobbies: Reading, writing, blogging, playing the violin, debating. ⋆.
.☘︎ ݁ What you'll find on this blog: Art, poetry and other stuffs that resonate with me. *:･
.☘︎ ݁ Favorite authors atm: Donna Tart, Sidney Sheldon, Francine Rivers, Chimamanda Adiche. (Still getting into the classics!!). ₊˚₊𓏲
.☘︎ ݁ Current obsession: Pinterest, Tumblr(Obv), Substack, Articles, Video essays, French, poetry, classics, period drama, self education, classical music.₊˚ʚ ₊
.☘︎ ݁My Substack: https://aladyandherquill.substack.com/
-My right brain 🧠.
-My left brain 🧠
"I wanted to be loved so desperately that my fingers shook with it, I am not beautiful but I could be" ― Emily Palermo
Obsession beats talent every time.
Beauty is terror, whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. -The Secret History
The most significant discoveries and best moments of my life have often happened by chance, contrary to popular belief. Whenever I look back, I struggle to pinpoint the exact moment they occurred. These experiences, in some way, altered the course of my life, yet I can’t quite remember how they unfolded. I never actively sought them out; they just simply found me.I’m talking about moments like how I got into reading, how I discovered my love for writing, my first relationship, my current friendship, the experiences that broadened my perspective, and the moments that defined my beliefs.
—A lady and her quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
