๐๐ฉ๐ ๐๐๐๐ฉ๐ก ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐, ๐๐ฉ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐ ๐ค๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐ค; ๐ต๐ข๐ก ๐ ๐ก๐ฆ๐๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐, ๐ด๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ก, ๐๐๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐. ๐๐ฉ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ก ๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ฉ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐ฉ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ค๐๐ก๐ฉ ๐ ๐๐๐ค; ๐๐ฉ๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ก ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐ด๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ก ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐. ๐ถ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐, ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐ ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐๐ ๐ค๐๐ ๐ก๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ค; ๐ต๐ข๐ก ๐๐๐ก๐ฉ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐: ๐ผ ๐ค๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ก, ๐๐๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐.
โEmily Jane Brontรซ, The Night
"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.
โA lady and her quill, Notes to a boy I now resent
โNaphtali is a doe set free that bears beautiful fawns.''--Gen 49:21
โDonna Tartt, The Secret History
โ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ฌ๐ฎ ๐ฒ๐ท ๐ฆ๐ธ๐ท๐ญ๐ฎ๐ป๐ต๐ช๐ท๐ญ
Beauty is terror, whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. -The Secret History
โSeverus Snape
hey i saw ur post abt readerโs block and what usually works for me is switching up genres or subgenres :) the further it is from what i usually read, the better honestly
Thank you for the advice, I might give that a try โค๏ธ
"In the first week of April the weather turned suddenly, unseasonably, insistently lovely. The sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and the sun beamed on the muddy ground with all the sweet impatience of June"
โย Donna Tartt,ย The Secret History
The little orphan girl represented loneliness, sadness, being invisible. Emilia sat at the window as she watched another little girl get adoptedโfor 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 didnโt. 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 wasnโt 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.
โA lady and her quill, Life at St. Stephen's Orphanage.
Obsession beats talent every time.