the inherent romanticism of being thought of.
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AnasAbdin

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almost home
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@juneacademia
the inherent romanticism of being thought of.
all bitches want is to be yearned for.
itās me, iām bitches.
all i want in life is to host an annual halloween bacchanal
There is no peace under political regime.
oh that someone could hold my hand and recognise the shape of it.
reconciling the knowledge we wonāt be lovers in this life with the belief that maybe somewhere, in some parallel universe, there is a version of you and a version of me that find themselves on the same train, heading to nowhere important, and it gets to be the beginning of something.
all bitches want is to be yearned for.
itās me, iām bitches.
i am stuck in an eternal state of yearning in which i romanticise and fantasise about all the lovers and lives i will never experience.
as all poets and lovers do, i too will rot with yearning
speak of me as i am [ā¦] of one that loved not wisely, but too well
ā Othello, William Shakespeare
When he touched her, he felt human in the way a glass teetered on the edge of a table āblinding when the sun scattered him, lovely when he slipped into unimaginable ruin.
ā Immortal Dark, Tigest Girma
fuck literary gatekeeping, read whatever you want.
with the ongoing booktok discourse on this subject, this post is more pertinent than ever.
whether you read spicy romcoms, high fantasy epic adventures, 19th century gothic literature ā you are valid as a reader.
everyone reads for different reasons. there is no space for elitism in the book community. criticism is healthy and beneficial when done well, but stop discouraging people from reading because they arenāt picking up the books you deem āworthyā.
not everybody wants to read what you want to read, and they donāt have to. it is not destroying the publishing industry, or ruining literature, i promise.
When Emily BrontĆ« wrote, āHeās more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.ā
all i do is yearn and crave and desire.
I have lost you longer than I have had you.
When Emily BrontĆ« wrote, āHeās more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.ā
existence is a grand aspiration.