XIII - Tumblr Posts
Is it just my experience or do most of the people treat you as if you're all fine just because you understand and can actually describe what's wrong with yourself??
"... We live in the age of the overworked, and the under-educated; the age in which people are so industrious that they become absolutely stupid."
๐ถ๐๐๐๐ ๐พ๐๐๐ ๐
๐ซ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐
๐ถ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ?
๐ป๐๐๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐ซ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐?
๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐ฏ๐จ๐ง๐ง๐
Who are you? Why do you embrace me so? How is it you're never absent? Why is it you're never leaving? How is it your arms are so heavy on my chest when you're only skin and bones in a shadow veil? How is it you speak with voices of so many without a tongue to form the words? How is it you scream; how is it you howl without opening your mouth? Why do you cling to me, say that you belong with me? How is it I don't even know your name but you know my every thought? How is it I've never seen your face when you're always by my side, holding my hand, guiding me like a child? Why do I follow? How is it I let you? What are you?
Emily Yvonne, fragments of my mind
"In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind."
Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice
My heart's an Autumn forest
My mind's a Winter lake
My soul consists of Northern lights
Morning mist's my spirit's wake
๐ฌ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
"It is so easy for people to have sympathy with suffering. It is so difficult for them to have sympathy with thought."
๐ถ๐๐๐๐ ๐พ๐๐๐ ๐
Grievous beyond comprehension, utterly disgraceful, and above all dismaying, but a fact nonetheless; people would rather suffer, as it is, regarding any efforts, for many, easier, than the actual action of thinking.
Emily Yvonne
I'm holding a warm mug, steam swirling from the surface of my tea. All is quiet inside my home except the crackling of dancing flames in the little fireplace. Even my beloved cat is sleeping. There's a book, waiting for me to sit down in the pillow covered window nook, but I cannot help but stare through the great window.. the window that oversees a vast fjord, and the hills crawling with fog. The water nearly frozen over now, the ice's starting to sing. The blues and grays painting their way through every day. But today the sky above the hills is a familiar purple shade, an omen of white feathers to soon fall down to protect the land. I'm here, present, and yet I'm completely calm. Surrounded by home; every piece of me knows, every piece of me feels, my spirit breathes. I am standing here and I don't wanna leave. I wanna exist nowhere but here.
It is but a dream.. how endlessly beautiful.
Emily Yvonne
๐๐ข๐ค๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ง๐๐ฅ๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐จ๐ฐ๐ง
๐๐ญ๐ฌ ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฆ๐
๐๐ฑ๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฌ๐ก๐๐
๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ง๐๐ฆ๐ ๐๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐
๐๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐
๐๐ก๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐๐
๐๐ฉ๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐๐ซ๐๐
๐๐ซ๐ฒ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ข๐๐ค ๐ข๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ฉ
๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ซ๐ฌ
๐๐ฅ๐จ๐จ๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ง๐จ๐ฐ
๐๐ง๐ค ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ง๐ค๐๐ง ๐ข๐ง ๐ฉ๐๐ฉ๐๐ซ
๐๐๐
๐๐ก๐จ๐ซ๐ง๐ฌ
๐๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฌ๐๐ฌ
๐๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐
๐๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ก๐จ๐๐ฌ
๐๐ง ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ก๐๐๐
๐๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐๐ข๐ง๐ฌ
๐๐จ๐ญ๐๐ฌ
๐๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฌ
๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐ฌ
๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐๐ซ๐ฌ
๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ง๐๐ซ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ
๐๐ง๐จ๐ฐ๐๐ฅ๐๐ค๐๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ก๐๐ข๐ซ
๐๐ฅ๐จ๐จ๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฏ๐๐ข๐ง๐ฌ
๐๐ข๐ง๐๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฌ
๐๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ง ๐จ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐ฒ๐๐ฌ
๐๐ข๐ค๐ ๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ซ๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐จ๐
๐ ๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ซ๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ซ๐ญ
๐๐๐๐จ๐ซ๐ญ๐ฅ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ฅ๐ฒ
๐๐ถ๐ฒ๐ต๐ ๐จ๐ฟ๐ธ๐ท๐ท๐ฎ
"It is viable to be benevolent and rational at the same time, in fact, it is sorely dangerous to be one without the other."
Emily Yvonne
The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box- keepers, the cloak-room attendants, or the concierge. No, he existed in flesh and blood, though he assumed all the outward characteristics of a real phantom, that is to say, of a shade.
Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
Am I actually chill or just depressed? It's getting hard to tell these days really...
It leaves you and you don't know how
You don't see your friends just shadows dancing in your mind
You do what you love what you can until you don't
The desperate call for help takes away all the joy
Nothing's real
You're not here
You're not sleeping
Not waking
Just that tantalising
Feeling of weakness
Where breaking is freedom
They want you to let go
To give up your struggle
Why hold on
When it clearly makes no sense
They try to prove you that there's nothing left
Not even yourself.
Emily Yvonne
"When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy."
- Lord Henry Wotton
๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ ๐จ๐ ๐๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ง ๐๐ซ๐๐ฒ, ๐๐ฌ๐๐๐ซ ๐๐ข๐ฅ๐๐
That lifelong gentle friend of mine, carnivorous loneliness
๐ฌ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐ฟ picture is my own, please, don't use without credit
People: get stuck on The Picture of Dorian Gray chapter 11 because it's too slow-paced/too much theory/too much description/too hard to read/not really interesting to them
Me: gets stuck on The Picture of Dorian Gray chapter 11 because I gotta look up every word I don't understand which subsequently leads to a further research as the word brings me to one curious topic after another and/or the thoughts in the text send me rolling ass over teakettle into a myriad of connections that open into enlightenments and realisations which I gotta contemplate and write down and process, and the chapter is full of those, and so I read a half a paragraph and for the next hour+ go down the rabbit hole, you see my problem
..."sometimes the traviamento turns out to be the right way"...
๐ฟ the two non-movie pictures are my own, please, don't use without credit
Later.
โ๏ธ pictures are my own, please, don't use without credit