[free-my-mindd]

[petaltexturedskies]

There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.

Virginia Woolf

[saintsebastiensbf]

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

[adelphe]

Giselle

World Ballet, 1958

[frachella]

[thereignclub-trc]

[natreads]

That desk + classics shelf + first snow combo

[babyjewl]

Audrey Hepburn in War and Peace (1956)

[yearningheart]

more on my substack <3

[butterflycharms]

​︵‿౨ৎ‿︵

[primulaceas]

Natalie Diaz, “Manhattan Is a Lenape Word.” Postcolonial Love Poem

[weltenwellen]

Leila Chatti, from “Tea”

[reemillustrated]

[metamorphesque]

"The Brothers Karamazov", Fyodor Dostoevsky (translated by Constance Garnett)

[juneacademia]

When Emily Brontë wrote, “He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

[tt-92-deactivated20250220]

If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden .. ♥️

[metamorphesque]

and then I learned the truth / how everything good in life seems to lead back to you / and every single time I run into your arms / I feel like I exist for love 🌼