The Only Living Girl In New York

ho, is you ok?! letterboxd: Kaisimone4

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Some shitty iPhone pics of some very beautiful art!

[violettes4roses]

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

@kaisimone4 on letterboxd

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Fall recap!

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Pics of summer before it’s over <3

[mabellonghetti]

Parker Posey in "Drunks" (dir. Peter Cohn - 1995).

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Guess who just turned 20 🤪

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Thank god for laufey

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

ah yes, my weekly laptop self :)

[koifishhies]

I finished The Song of Achilles today. I've been delaying getting to the end of it for a few months now, for obvious reasons but… ho.ly.fuck.

It's not that I didn't know how it ended. Not the details, but I knew the broad strokes. The armour, Hector, the infamous rage of Achilles. Even Pyrrhus and the tombstone. I knew. But there's just something so much more intimate about a book.

I'm not going to say I wailed and sobbed or anything, I didn't even put the book down. But from chapter thirty on I was just sitting there, quietly weeping as I flipped the pages. It wasn't one single climax moment of intense pain, but a drawn-out aching, each new sentence starting a fresh wave over and over again. But I didn't really stop reading. If I paused it was to blink the tears away so I could see again.

If there's any part I could say really did me in, though, it was, without a doubt: I am made of memories.

It's been so long since a book has done that to me. Again, there's something so intimate about a book. 'Cause you're the one imagining it all, you know? No two people will imagine it quite the same, even if they're reading the same words. You're delving into these characters' minds, but you're also letting them into yours. And everything feels so much more raw and human, that way.

There's also something to be said about the nature of ancient myths like this. These are stories that have lived on for literal thousands of years… because people cared about them so much. Saw themselves in them, saw their world in them, or even found it in their heart to empathize with a world they didn't know at all. Loved them and hated them and debated and cried over them. Even if the characters are fictional, it's a testament to our love for life and our fellow humans that we've let them live for so long; because at the end of the day, every story is a story of people. In this way stories become the epitome of us as humans; our love letter to life, no matter how often the damn thing hurts us.

I am far from the first person to cry over this story, but I am also far from the last. And there is just something so comforting about that, you know? Makes it feel a little less lonely to be alive.

[poet-by-heart]

Sorry, but the whole “Hector is wearing Achilles’ own armor, taken from my corpse. It looks, almost, as if Achilles is chasing himself.” part just has me thinking… Who is Achilles truly hunting down on that battlefield? The man who killed Patroclus, or the man who let Patroclus walk into his demise? Who is Achilles trying to punish? Who is he truly trying to kill? Hector or himself?

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

PAIN

[metamorphesque]

The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

So I just finished reading this. Pain.

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Never make a girl part with her prada bag and computer camera

[intrusiv3thotdaughter]

Why am I chilling in a cafe and all of the sudden I hear the opening chords to lover, you should have come over! Now I’m fighting tears while sipping coffee.

[victoria-pedretti]

Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn as Joe Bradley and Princess Ann ROMAN HOLIDAY 1953 — dir. William Wyler