academia aesthetics by university major
Losing yourself in whimsy, drifting somewhere parallel to reality. Passionate, frenzied writing in the heart of the night. Drinking the moonlight. Love letters lost between moments. Birdsong. Quiet looks, filled with meaning. Opinions you don’t speak out loud. Chopin’s Nocturnes.
A glint in the eye, like they know something you don’t. Books in different languages, scattered across every surface. Red wine, and blood, and secrets. Spirits stirred by the glorious weight of eras past, tongue heavy with the words of dead men. Marble busts of Greek philosophers. Reality dulling against the music of myth.
Milky tea and introspective mornings. Sun filtering gently into a quiet room. Reading in nature, sinking into the sound of the wind, birds or water. Margins filled with annotations. Long, grand hallways and the echo of footsteps. Conversations that last for hours, but feel like minutes.
Notebooks filled with scattered calculations, terms, and theories, partnered with small pieces of flora and miscellaneous clippings. ‘Eureka’ moments. Wild eyes and chewed lips. Lying awake all night, your head buzzing with ideas. Piles of meticulous notes. Hunching over desks in dim lamplight. The feeling of puzzle pieces fitting together. The smallness of humanity, and the vastness of existance.
Huge, baroque ballrooms with renaissance paintings on the ceilings. Staring up at them until the real world dissolves and the images spin around you. Early spring. Foxes in the snow. Classical music. Vintage teacups, and slow blinks. Laughter covered by fingers. Dancing where no-one can see you.
Fast strides and black coffee. Enthusiastic debates with peers, and discussions with your professor. Pages and pages of notes, scrawled so hastily they’re almost illegible. Running through the night, laughing with friends and going places you shouldn’t. A cunning smile from across a room.
Grand old buildings, shadowed with age and brimming with secrets. Old, rusty daggers. Tentative hands and determined eyes. Fingers stained with nicotine and ink. Old books and letters, shrouded in dust, that no-one’s read in a hundred years. Touching the pages, and understanding what it was to be alive in another time, seeing what they saw and feeling what they felt.
(dm to request a major for part two)
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
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romaincrisis
izzy806
