Latest Posts by a-lady-and-her-quill - Page 2

hey i saw ur post abt reader’s 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 ❤️

Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow”. Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

If I cannot love you openly like I wish, if I cannot hold your hand when walking Or wrap you in my arms late at night. Then I will love you silently, in my mind and behind closed eyes For there, there is no rejection or heartbreak. And surely it is better to love silently than to not love at all?

—unknown

Hello!! I just found your blog and it is just lovely xx 😊💕

Omg thank you so much love, this means a lot to me. 🥹❤️‍🩹

"I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever!"

—Revelation 1:17–18.

Happy Easter everybody ♱

────❁───────❁────────❁──────❁────────❁────

Hey 🌸˚˖⋆, so lately I've been thinking of ways to romanticize my college experience and decluttering and re-organizing my digital space with Notion has been helping with this.

What is your favorite kind of aesthetic for Notion.

Ughhh..... why are they labelling my posts as mature, my content is very harmless SFW. There are literal NSFW accounts and bots littered all over this app and nothing has been done about it

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance."

—Song of Solomon 2:11-13 (NIV)

In the spirit of holy week ♱, I've decided to drop this, if this post doesn't resonate with you, feel free to skip....

Lately I've been obsessed with old cinema.

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

Lately the only thing I've been taking seriously in my life is this blog.𓇢𓆸

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

"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"

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

—Joan of Arc