I Don’t Want Just Words. If That’s All You Have For Me, You’d Better Go

what r ur top books of all time

The Metamorphosis, The Castle, Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (no, it's not too long - if anything, it should've been longer)

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Samvel by Raffi

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao

Demian. Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend by Hermann Hesse

South of the Border, West of the Sun by Haruki Murakami

1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

The Neapolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante

All the Lovers in the Night by Mieko Kawakami

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

starry night

Albertine Bookstore, NYC

Dark Academia Subjects: Astronomy

What do I do with my life

Can you please hand out any hope I can cling to?

I have notifications on for your posts and yet can't bear to open each one because I know it will hit me so hard I'll want to sink into earth

and I don't wanna die just yet

I want to live life vibrantly and with joy, grass, green, wonder, sunlight, all of the things that make it easy to breathe or at the very least, easier

pero I'm so lonely and achy and whiney and shaky I hate who I am and all that I stand for, I'm a fraud and a fake! I say I love love and then live in my hate I can't stand myself and my existence

I wish I could live inside poetry like a blog, like your blog, like a tiny post existing as it is, not real but real anyway, not real enough to touch but real enough to touch

What do I do with my life what do I do with my life why am I spending my days alienated and tested for things I'm no good for why am I doing this to my life who let me do this to my life what do I do with it now

hello, my friend! I guess we're on the same train now, plagued by the same guilt of being alive but not really living ... reading your message felt like a soliloquy, my own soliloquy for you so gently grazed your fingers on my bleeding wounds.

I myself am trying to make me live, if that makes sense. No one really tells you that you might have years when you have to actively convince yourself to stay alive, no one teaches you how to do that.

By clinging to the littlest of things is how I operate. a song, a poem, a photo, a minute, a memory, a tasty snack or a warm cup of coffee, an idea, a painting, a stupid joke I've heard somewhere — I gather all these things in my hands to keep them occupied, so that they wouldn't do something unrepairable, irreversible.

What I've understood so far is that we go through seasons of (1) living despite, (2) living for and (3) simply living.

You and I, it seems, are at the mercy of the first one. To live despite is what we should do — despite the alienation, despite the loneliness, despite these spiteful thoughts and horrors. Once this season is over, we'll move on to the second one: to live for. This one, I think, will be much easier to travel through because the days here are full of little droplets of hope that attach themselves to your skin and don't leave your side until you reach the final season: simply living. Living here is as easy as it is to breathe. This is our destination.

I know that I didn't answer your questions and that I'm not capable of doing so. I'm sorry. I myself have decided not to seek answers anymore. As Rilke said, Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. Perhaps you do carry within you the possibility of creating and forming, as an especially blessed and pure way of living; train yourself for that — but take whatever comes, with great trust, and as long as it comes out of your will, out of some need of your innermost self, then take it upon yourself.

I'm accepting the happiest days of my life (that are yet to come) as my lighthouse and I'm sailing toward them. Hopefully you'll do the same.

Take care 🧡🌼

Takashi Watabe

La Petite CathédraleCergy-Pontoise, Paris, France. 1971

Architect: Ricardo Bofill

Poets have their desks and pockets filled with poems, artists with sketches, and mine are filled with equations, calculus and books.

After all, we, scientists and you, romantics, aren't so different.

when will someone make a sapphic dark academia book WHEN??

Leah Raeder, Black Iris