When Franz Kafka said that he is terribly afraid of dying because he hasnât yet lived, i felt that on a deep emotional level.
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@bibliophilecupcake
When Franz Kafka said that he is terribly afraid of dying because he hasnât yet lived, i felt that on a deep emotional level.
âEvery time you enter a library you might say to yourself, âThe world is quiet here,â as a sort of pledge proclaiming reading to be the greater good.â
â The Slippery Slope
I have written two film reviews in my life and I donât think I have anything left to say about films
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THIS!! ALL OF THIS!!!
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Premiere of Roman Holiday in Hollywood, 1953
saccharine sunshine.
draco malfoy à reader
words: 2k
Draco Malfoy is eleven years old when he first catches sight of a blur of sunshine one bleak and blustery afternoon. It clouds the vision in his left eye, snatches his attention for more than fifteen seconds, forces him to whip his head - his entire body - around, all just to catch a glimpse, a teeny, minuscule glimpse, of a girl - the girl - bundled beneath the flash of vibrance.
And Draco, well, Draco has to remind himself just how putrid the color truly is. How revolting the House it belongs to is. How even more offensive the girl who resides in the House with the dreadful color is.
Because she is absolutely, positively, completely and down right, utterly horrible. A disgrace to her already disgraceful House. Â
And Draco has no desire to discredit his high and mighty family title for someone of such a lowly caste.
Ă
Draco Malfoy is twelve years old and believes himself even more superior in contrast to the population that makes up Hogwarts. Spitting the word âMudbloodâ like venom to its prey nearly every other day, lets it drip from his lips like a faulty faucet in the dead of winter.
And this - this bothers her, gets underneath the thin layer of her flesh, and gnaws away at her every last nerve, bores itself into the endless void of her brain, and pesters her and pounds its menacing name against the drums of her ears, sends her into a frenzied dance of furry in the middle of the night between the cotton quilts dressing her feather, soft mattress, and makes her clamp down on her rose dusted lips till they transfer to a gleaming crimson. Â
But she doesnât dare speak, doesnât dare say a single word, or crack a simple syllable.
And this - this bothers Draco, infuriates him to no end, seeps underneath the translucent skin of his peeked cheeks sending them into a flurry of untameable flames. Â Â
But he doesnât dare stop, doesnât dare let the chance of her speaking to him flutter away like the tattered leaf tumbling down, down, down to the ruby littered ground right before his very eyes in this very moment in time. Â
And it occurs to him, rather harshly, that the word itself doesnât taste half as well as heâd anticipated.
Ă
It isnât until Dracoâs third year he musters the courage to speak two words to her. Â Â Â
âWatch it!â he hisses.
And itâs the girlâs turn to whip her head - her entire body - around, all just to stare him down dead in the eye.
And, my God, if sheâs not completely and down right, utterly gorgeous in the bleeding sunlight.
But instead of spitting venom right back at him, she smiles. A graceful grin, a sneaky smirk, and the corridor shimmers and glimmers under her ethereal presence. Â
A remark suffused with snark is rolling around behind the walls of her loosely sealed lips, a playful glint igniting a spark in her eyes as she speaks.
âWhat makes you think Iâm the one who needs to watch it?â
Swiftly like the autumn wind scraping against the dust filled windowpanes, she twirls around and is on her way. Â
And that is that.
Ă
Draco Malfoy is fourteen years old and standing beneath the midnight stream of a crystallized chandelier watching ever so carefully, ever so cautiously as she glissades across the grandeur, ice floor, five fingers intertwined with those of a distinguishable boy with a diacritic scar and a detectable pair of spectacles.
And Draco, heâs seething, is hardly breathing, can hardly see clearly for the burning, gurgling concoction seeping up and up and up his esophagus.
Itâs not until later when his eyes catch on the billow of her dress, and the shimmer of her skin, and the catalytic twirling of the wind between her hair and -
She feels the weeping of the wound before he even pulls the trigger, hears the breeze beneath his feet as he glides across the snippy December air from behind the spot of where she stands.
âCareful,â she spirals around slowly, gown bound lowly to the tips of her toes. âStare any longer, and I might actually bleed out.â
âWouldnât want that.â
âRight. Iâd hate to be the one to dirty your pretty, shiny shoes.â
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it once more, but reverts back to the resounding silence.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
âYou sure about that?â
Dracoâs never been sure about much of anything.
âIâve got a question for you, Malfoy, and I want the truth.â
Dracoâs only ever learned how to form petty lies around his pretty lips.
âWhy is it youâve never called me that.â
âCalled you what?â
And he knows, oh, my God does Draco know.
âYouâre a remarkably good liar,â she whispers, and itâs only then and there, Draco takes note of just how close theyâve become in such a short span of time. âBut not that good.â
âYou just never heard me.â he retaliates coolly, and rather quickly.
Much too quickly, and not quite chilly enough.
Her face grows closer until itâs mere millimeters away from his unraveling lips. Their breaths are intertwining, and body heat is interweaving, and tightened chests are quickly rising and -
âI donât believe you.â
Dracoâs not so sure heâs ever felt so cold in all his life.
Ă
It isnât until fifth year Draco receives a shock most alarming.
It isnât until fifth year he receives a dose of fiery, cold water down the shirt on his back, feels it trickle down the iron wrought staircase of his spine and slither through the notches of his ribs, down to the very marrow of his very bones. Â
It isnât until his fifth year is nearing its end he receives a tangible whack across his face more abrupt and unexpected and unwelcome than Grangerâs back in third year.
It isnât until his fifth year he receives his first kiss.
And it goes a little something like this:
A girl - the girl - comes billowing down a torch-lit, midnight swept corridor with a laugh lodged in her throat and a flush tainted to her cheeks.
And he knows she cannot, should not be here, knows he should not be considering letting her be, remaining free, and he knows, oh, my God, does Draco know he should snatch her wrists and commit his sin by turning her in and gain himself a win, but he cannot, cannot, cannot bring his rigid form to break free from this rock hard mold, cannot, cannot, cannot bring himself to do the wrong thing because this is her, and as much as he really, truly, deeply detests her, it appears he cannot unveil the strength he needs to pull through with this daunting task.
But when she spies him spying her, she stops, stumbles, stutters, all wide eyes and saturated shadows melting down her waxy features.
Itâs a moment of silence - a moment of truth - as they stare the other down, waiting for a sign - a motion, a flash, a jolt - that they are, in fact, flesh and bones and not cold, hard stone.
âYou shouldnât be here.â is all he says - all he can think to say. Because every other possible letter and word and sentence is mortar on the roof of his mouth.
âYouâre going to turn me in, arenât you?â she quietly inquiries, though, itâs hardly an inquiry at all. Rather, itâs more of a confrontation, an invitation, a dare.
A sickly, sweet dare.
A sickly, sweet dare Draco swishes around his mouth, rolls across his tongue, spreads over his taste buds and shoves down his esophagus.
Itâs a dare - a dare so utterly sweet, so undeniably taunting - one Draco cannot seem to say âyesâ or ânoâ to.
A cheshire cat smile tickles her lips as her maddening stare bores bullets through his soul, his skull, his fucking sanity. Sheâs closing in and grinning big as she places one foot in front of the other until sheâs close, closer, closest, until he can no longer breath, no longer see the precise lines of her sloping nose and razor wire jawline.
And theyâre barely missing, skin almost, almost, almost kissing.
And itâs oh so tantalizing, oh so terrifying.
Their lips are brushing, heartbeats pulsing -
- And their lips are touching, pulse points rushing.
And this - this is new. Â
This is different. This is enthralling. This is enticing. This is petrifying, just as it is electrifying.
And his next movement comes uninitiated, unpredicted. For his fingers weave through the waves of her hair as he kisses, kisses, kisses her back so hard and so long that his lips swell and his tongue exudes a lurid, berry syrup. Â
Teeth clink and guards sink, and without a blink or a proper moment to think, heâs crashing into the cold, hard ground without anything or anyone to grasp on to.
Ă
Draco Malfoy is sixteen years old, and his life is spiraling out of control.
Because thereâs a mark, you see, all serrated and stark against shockingly white flesh. The ink rubs against his veins the wrong way.
His tears seep through the starch of his shirt and his blood flows through the crevices of the scabrous stones of the girlâs bathroom floor.
Heâs bleeding out, and thereâs nothing he can do to make it stop.
This is how she finds him - lying in a flood of horrors, the basin overflowing, blood drowning her toes and filling his lungs.
She canât quite bear the sight.
She runs to him, holds him tight, with all her might, without a fright and -
And she doesnât let go.
Draco really doesnât know how much longer he can keep on fighting.
He realizes heâs finally reached the end of the line.
Perhaps that was his destination this whole time.
âPlease, Professor, you have to help him,â she whispers, quiet desperation slipping from her tongue, and spilling from her eyes.
Draco canât help but wonder if this is what it feels like to die.
Because lying here it all seems much too crystal clear.
The end of the world is finally here, knocking on his door, his demise has arrived at long last.
Ă
Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, and the time has come for him to go.
Because thereâs a war, you see, all blood and gore amidst a world torn in two.
Itâs cackling like a tortuous scorn inside the walls of his head, thrumming and humming within the flow of his bloodstream, screaming and crying and -
âI have to go.â he says, words reverberating through the ash-mottled air.Â
His name has been called, and itâs time for him to move on, to choose the side he was meant to all along.
He canât help but feel as if he were the one who had been wrong after all.
âYou donât have to,â she says, and oh, my God, Draco knows.
He knows.
âOh, but I do, love.â
She shakes her head, digs her nails into the lapels of his jacket. Thereâs soot in her hair, and tears in her eyes, and blood on her lips. Draco can feel the final sigh of his once beating heart, the tumbling of the walls inside his chest.
He really did try his best.
Draco knows this is a final goodbye, and a screaming cry and a dire prayer to a God that Dracoâs unsure is even there and -
âI love you,â he says.
But only inside the back of his head.
It really is something, isn't it?!
âIt happens to everyone as they grow up. You find out who you are and what you want, and then you realize that people youâve known forever donât see things the way you do. So you keep the wonderful memories, but find yourself moving on.â
â Nicholas Sparks
Mariachiara Digiorgio
I need this.
Reblogged last year, hoping it comes this year
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Âť Caravaggio (1571 - 1610)
Judith Beheading Holofernes
Bacchus
The Calling of St. Matthew
Death of the Virgin
The Cardsharps
Dinner at Emmaus
history | historical women | europe
(ŃĐž ŃŃŃаниŃŃ Flamingo)
via @extramadness
Aries: I envy you. I envy your courage, your stupidity and your childishness. Maybe youâre asking âWhy?â Well, wouldnât it be beautiful if we were all children at heart, like you? Like seeing things so horrible yet still making corny jokes? Like telling your feelings, like running until your feet hurt? Like purity, like innocence mixed with knowledge? You have experienced the world, you have experienced life. And yet, you still stand here. Brave and tall. As if to say âI am not afraid of life. I am not afraid to live.â Taurus: I will always associate you with flowers and colours. With lilies and roses and blood oranges. I will always associate you with fruit and red-green-yellow. We will speak in colours, talk in words others wonât understand. With red-grey sand and blue-green eyes. An encouraging nod, a hug with clasping hands. Words left unspoken simply âcause they were never meant to be said, they were meant to be. They were meant to be. Plucking petals like a grade schooler playing games about love. Holding a magnifying glass over your head, and I could not find a flaw. I just saw you. I saw you. Gemini: While you drink in the melodies of everyoneâs laughter. The ghosts find a new home inside your body. A facade of performance, masking out true emotions. While the hallways turn vacant and your ghosts shut the doors. The voices leave the room empty, the emptiness in your chest weighing like a brick worth thousands of golden bricks. I cannot put a price on your heart, I donât know its colours. I donât know its voice. Or the three albums you have on repeat over the summer, or the songs you dance to at night. Simply because you are you, unique, mysterious and beautiful. Cancer: You are a puzzle and I am not your missing peace, I donât own it. But you do. You make up your own being. Maybe you left it in your back pocket, next to the shattered dreams or under the pillars you build when you were eight years old. The ones you made to put your broken home on, searching for stability in broken mirrors. I will linger in my map of you and I swear that even when I get back it leads back to you. It always leads back to you. To that little house with orange paint on the walls from ten years ago. With the nicotine sticking to a once white ceiling and some kind of animals running around. The dusty photographs will still stand on the desk. You will still sit on that one spot, with teary eyes and crossed legs. And you will still be beautiful. Leo: I could never describe your beauty. Your beauty cannot be multiplied, it can only be remembered, treasured, envied, appreciated or regretted. And by remembered I mean that when you feel like you are just another extra in someoneâs life that they will mention you to their parents during dinner. They will talk about your shining personality and sparkling eyes. By treasured I am talking about that âthe oneâ experience which you deserve. A treasure filled with all things unique and irreplaceable. One thatâs filled with happiness. By envied I am talking about the eyes you do not see, or do not wish to see. Or donât notice. You stand out in a crowd, especially when you donât think you are. By appreciated I am talking about the ones who see your true you, your tangled hair and cracked lips. The ones who still stay even through the bad times. By regretted I am talking about the people who did not see your beauty until you blossomed. I understand why you find cocoons beautiful now, and how you like caterpillars just as much as butterflies. Virgo: Snow litters on untouched skin. Sun rains through the cracks of the darkness even where you hide. I could hear you talking every day. Forever. With delicate fingers and blushed cheeks. Your hair untamed and your fingers bruised to the bone. Delicately logical. The edges of the leafs of oak trees remind me of your way of thinking. The overhang reminds me of your mind. Which casts shadows over the villagers in the houses you build where colourless souls reside. You are so often in debate with your own head, at war with your own body. Never at peace, always restless. Always asking, âbut why?â I donât know. You like it, donât you? Parading around in your own world? Sweet little soul in a world full of pain. Libra: The bell of the church echoed through your head a little longer than it shouldâve. It never was nice. We never played nice. We talked until our lips were dry and I stayed home when you were out cold. But memories donât matter anymore do they darling? In this orchestra of harmonious noises where you are the leader of everything nothing can hurt you. I donât know, I donât know. And goddamnit I know you will try to push everything on yourself again. You always do. Thatâs just how you work. Why donât you warm your hands on your own body for once? You donât need another person to feel like youâre loved, you only need one. One whole, full, true person. Scorpio: Everything seems darker these days. Charcoal coloured clouds are a daily thing. And your arms are always covered up along with your legs. Even in the summer the nights donât seem as enchanting. Not when small bruises shaped like the bumps of your knuckles litter on your thighs. Self destructive lullabies, âI just need a friend, for once in my life.â A desire for someone to stay ripped from your lips. So I stayed by your side wondering, if you wanted me to stay or needed me to stay. Of course I could say you remind me of scarlet blood and bathroom tiles. But you also remind of the river I used to play in when I was nine. You also remind me of the necklace I got when my grandmother passed away. You remind me of memories, the good, the bad, the in-between. You remind me of life. Please keep on living. Sagittarius: The reason that I didnât cry when you left was because crying means letting go, or so you said. And I donât want to let you go. I want you to be a part of me, forever. But I canât do that, you would rot in the hell hole that is my mind. I canât put you through more cruelty. I hate how I am the reason you cry on bad nights, do you still wonder if I miss you? I do. I do. I do. Regret was stronger than appreciation. But youâre so fucking strong. Your eyes still shine even when youâre sad. You think no one likes you yet you know thatâs not true. Youâre the reason I am alive. You let me experience pain, beauty, emotion. You let me live. Youâre so much more than enough, sometimes I canât even handle who you are. You are dazzling. But you could never control your heart, it always wandered over the streets of other peopleâs bodies. Capricorn: When the sun sets over mountains and the houses made of glass shatter I will still see your name in the sky in neon lights. The little bugs in our home always wanted to be friends with you. They always say on the tip of your nose with gentle smiles. I never envied you, I wish I treasured you. You are so simplistic and nice. Nice. Too underrated for your own good, no? Arenât we all. Your hands will still be remembered by those you touched. You always leave some kind of mark that they donât want to wash off. You have that affect on people. You make them drown their thoughts and hold their breath when you walk into a room. You are an old soul, you know. Why? You just do. Because youâre you. And nothing can change that or the late nights, the slowness or the fastness in your walk doesnât matter for the right people. They will walk for you until they have blathers on their toes. If they donât you know what to do. Aquarius: Swirls of icy wind are always your accomplice. Your cold, and beautiful; like snow. The wires always stick to your senses, they get stuck in between your backbone. They twist around your spine and plug into the back of your brain. You let other people control you like youâre a mindless puppet. I think the wires got the best of you. Whenever you speak your mind it says something beautiful and unique. You are original, not ordinary. I am sorry they teach you that being unique is bad and that you have to fit into this âordinaryâ world as an âordinaryâ person. Nothing is ordinary about you, not even your name. Your name says who you are as a person, if someone asks me to define you I will simply say your name, the definition of your personality is your name. Because your name is unique and so is your personality. Donât let other people control you. Pisces: The imaginary butterflies with the raven black wings told me about you. They tell me that your head is in a universe they have never seen, with all things beautiful and all things bad. They see you crying with your knees tugged up sometimes, hands in your hair as you hide beneath sheets of darkness. You write poetry with the blood in the sink and make galaxies with the stars you find inside other people their eyes. A gentle smile always embraces your lips, âSo happy, yet so sadâ they say. A mask is something you believe is beautiful, but I believe you are beautiful. The real you. Not the you who cautiously walks over this realm of sadness. Your moonlit hair is so silky, your sunlit eyes are so sad. Chin up little soldier.
Letters to the zodiac signs (via sodiumforsaltytimes)