Very Much What I Wish All The Time.

↠ Latin Phrases

I’ve been collecting these phrases for a while. Now, I’m finally posting them!

In absentia lucis, tenebrae vincunt |  In the absence of light, darkness prevails

Dulce periculum | Danger is sweet

Non ducor duco | I am not lead; I lead

Cogito ergo sum | I think, therefore I am

Lux brumalis | The light of winter

Alis propriis volat | She flies with her own wings

Bibere venenum in auro | To drink poison from a golden cup

Est quaedam flere voluptas | There is a certain pleasure in weeping

Ut incepit fidelis sic permanet | Loyal she began, thus she remains

Si vis pacem, para bellum | If you want peace, prepare for war

Luceat lux vestra | Let your light shine

Vidi Vidi Amavi | I came, I saw, I loved | Julius Caesar

Astra inclinant, sed non obligant | The stars incline us, they do not bind us.

Sic semper tyrannis | Thus always to tyrants | Marcus Junius Brutus

Aeternum vale | Farewell forever

Curae leves loquuntur ingentes stupent | Slight griefs talk, great ones are speechless.

Fortuna vitrea est; tum cum splendet frangitur | Fortune is glass; just when it gleams brightest it shatters | Publilius Syrus

Hinc illae lacrimae | Hence these tears | Terence

There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in it’s life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above it’s own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But, the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the legend.

Colleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds

I don’t know why but I don’t think I’ll ever forget this. 

they’re just like me, i’m just like them, we’re all the same.

My therapist once told me, “You are the guiltiest feeling person I’ve ever met” and just to prove her right, I took it to heart. An astrologer said, “You have so much water in your chart. What is it like to feel the emotions of every single person alive, everyday?” and I wept because I sensed he was displeased. A teacher told my parents “She’s very sensitive. Far more than the other kids in her class.” I took my SATs at 9 years old, but they encouraged my mother to hold me back because of how my eyes glistened when I heard the word no. She told them to go to hell. So I cried my way through my education until high school when they said “You take everything so personally, you’ll never survive in a company environment. You wouldn’t make a good employee.” So I employed myself (out of spite or…necessity) and then later, I hired 200 people. A boyfriend told me “Don’t be so dramatic, everything isn’t a movie.” Fine, so it’ll be an album then. The doctor said “This shouldn’t hurt a bit.” I tread daily on a minefield that leaves me classifying the variations in footsteps, the tonality in voice, a change in breath. “Is everything okay? You seem mad” is my pledge of allegiance to this tightly wound bundle of flesh. I am cut open, butterflied and flayed, with every single nerve exposed like live wires and, yes, they all hurt to touch. Each interaction is a litmus test of how well liked I am, and therefore how worthy to live. I wake up every morning and the moral barometer resets, T-minus 12 hours to prove to myself that I am not the bad person I believe I must be. Sleep, repeat. An amnesiac nightmare. Prometheus on a rock and the gull in my guts is myself. I once envied those with greater armor, but not anymore. “Why do you care so much?” Guard yourself from the little grievances, but the shield does not differentiate. The space where I am vulnerable to the pain that passes through is an entry point for the microscopic good that others may miss. I live in technicolor torment. If I could do it over again and choose the comfortable grey, I would seize a knife and cut the little keyholes back into my every limb. So the light can get in.

Vivamus, moriendum est | Let us live, since we must die

Exigo a me non ut optimus par sim sed ut malis melio | I require myself not to be equal to the best, but to be better than the bad

Vive ut Vivas | Live to live

In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni | We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire.

Flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo | If I can not bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell | Aeneid, Virgil

Neutiquam erro | I am not lost

In Omnia Paratus | Ready for anything

↠ Latin Phrases

I’ve been collecting these phrases for a while. Now, I’m finally posting them!

In absentia lucis, tenebrae vincunt |  In the absence of light, darkness prevails

Dulce periculum | Danger is sweet

Non ducor duco | I am not lead; I lead

Cogito ergo sum | I think, therefore I am

Lux brumalis | The light of winter

Alis propriis volat | She flies with her own wings

Bibere venenum in auro | To drink poison from a golden cup

Est quaedam flere voluptas | There is a certain pleasure in weeping

Ut incepit fidelis sic permanet | Loyal she began, thus she remains

Si vis pacem, para bellum | If you want peace, prepare for war

Luceat lux vestra | Let your light shine

Vidi Vidi Amavi | I came, I saw, I loved | Julius Caesar

Astra inclinant, sed non obligant | The stars incline us, they do not bind us.

Sic semper tyrannis | Thus always to tyrants | Marcus Junius Brutus

Aeternum vale | Farewell forever

Curae leves loquuntur ingentes stupent | Slight griefs talk, great ones are speechless.

Fortuna vitrea est; tum cum splendet frangitur | Fortune is glass; just when it gleams brightest it shatters | Publilius Syrus

Hinc illae lacrimae | Hence these tears | Terence

Sonnet Macabre by Theodore Wratislaw

I love you for the grief that lurks within

Your languid spirit, and because you wear

Corruption with a vague and childish air,

And with your beauty know the depths of sin;

Because shame cuts and holds you like a gin,

And virtue dies in you slain by despair,

Since evil has you tangled in its snare

And triumphs on the soul good cannot win.

I love you since you know remorse and tears,

And in your troubled loveliness appears

The spot of ancient crimes that writhe and hiss:

I love you for your hands that calm and bless,

The perfume of your sad and slow caress,

The avid poison of your subtle kiss.

i’m not in my virginia woolf era but i can see her at the end of the hallway waiting her turn

Felt this. Way too much.

when Charles Bukowski said "and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?"

changed lives

Halsey to matty

He doesn't like to cuddle. He likes to grip my hips and pull the fibers of pink tissue in shreds from my lip with his teeth. He throws his hands in the air like a messiah and leans his head out the open window. easy. breathe. codeine. breeze. We laugh loudly and kiss loudly and moan loudly. He mouths vulgar things that make me giggle in front of our friends. I run my hand along the seam off his tight black jeans beneath the table top. He rolls his eyes and smirks at me. We take every opportunity to touch, to feel, so secretly. So public. Exhibitionist pleasure. We play like children, tousling my hair and I climb on his back. We roll spliff after spliff and talk rapidly and vigorously and trip over each others sentences like a sidewalk crack. He says "us" like it means "amen" and his eyes burn wild with a fire of passion. We get drunk. Off of wine and skin and things we love. His smile erupts across his face like it could shatter his cheekbones. His eyes glimmer like a lake catching the glare of the moonlight. A glint of silver is growing up the side of his hairline. He thinks it makes him look distinguished. I laugh and agree. He loves to be so much older than me. He thinks it makes him wise. We spend a lot of time in hotel rooms with the doors shut. (We spend a lot of time outside of hotel rooms with our mouths shut.) He thinks the Xanax makes the sex last longer and I don't argue. I always wake up first. I sit at the desk and work quietly and glance at him in the sheets. Vulnerable and quiet. Soft face. Soft sounds. A warm cup of coffee and marmalade light through the windows. We bond over love for our brothers. We fight over where the chord change should go. We tease, oh we tease. He likes clean socks and messy hair and he runs his fingers down my overall straps with a tigers grin. He writes his name in the fog on the mirror from where he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pressed my face against the glass. He loves soul music. We sing confidently and triumphantly. I tap my fingers like spiders legs across his bare chest and undo his buttons one by one. I toss my head back and laugh maniacally and pout my lips when he won't be fair. He speaks like a pastor and trips over his words, his tongue struggles to meet his brain. That's how a prodigy thinks. (Or it's the drugs). He knows when my words are about him and he lets it all go to his head and I don't care because I love to watch him love himself. We laugh and fuck and play and write and plot and say goodbye and never worry. He is my occasional constant. A parody of himself. A paradox of ever present and transparent. I don't care what he is. I just care THAT he is. (via seenteenblack)

How truly romantic would that be. 

to love a poet; to be immortalized in verse