excoluisse-per-artes

all things beautifully written and nostalgic | latin | mythology | poetry | dark academia | 

[frankensteincest]

Frankenstein touched every part of the Creature before he was born. and presumably never touched him again.

[zegalba]

An X-ray image of the blood vessels of the hand made using mercury injection (1896)

[coriolanusbutch]

hey, i’m sorry, i ate your boyfriend’s heart. yeah it was after he slandered, scorned and dishonoured my kinswoman. in the marketplace yeah. i mean he was approved in the height a villain so- yeah no i’m really sorry

[wishuponastarion]

"oh sorry, i guess i was infodumping again" - sad, shy, apologetic

"you sly dog, you got me monologuing" - cool, strong, confident

[darkmacademia]

my collection of original art pdf prints inspired by anatomy, astronomical history, and literature! 

anatomical / bookplates / astronomical

[writesoftdarkness]

I am delusional

I still think that in my decay 

i will be beautiful 

[writesoftdarkness]

Death and I slept in

I woke up to Death

In the bed beside me

“I’m tired too” he says 

“Would you like to stay there a bit

And have some rest of your own?”

I ask. After all, it’s a queen-sized bed.

He smiles at me, and blinks slowly

I can tell he could use the sleep

“Really” i say “rest yourself”

And so death and i

Slept in a bit

on a Saturday as the sun crept up

Neither of us leaving

Only one of us breathing 

Until the old cat came in 

[writesoftdarkness]

My dear, this is a playful affair

Let the window sit open

Take a pen to your book

Yell in the margins

I’ll put the coffee on

My shirt is wrinkled

Your hair is a mess 

We’re not going in today 

This breath was meant for laughter 

And soft words to round skin

There is no striving within these walls

This life, these hands

Have nobler things to reach

[writesoftdarkness]

excerpt from a book i’ll never finish

And there, I was lying on the carpet 

Staring up at the wall, where several sides all came together

And the light hitting each one differently made each a different color

This could be a good oil painting, I thought 

I do not know if I like myself, I thought. 

[writesoftdarkness]

I’m not smoking i’m not drinking 

No guitar is singing

My self destruction is quiet

It is my room and I

My decline was not glamorous 

No bedrooms and no raves

I burned out cold, with hollow bones

And was not found for days

-Quiet Decline, DLJ

[writesoftdarkness]

May your evenings be soft but dark

Warm mugs over torn books 

May your mornings always be grey and misty

Full of quiet and possibility

-quiet evenings, DLJ

[writesoftdarkness]

Why is my heart running?

Where could it go?

Is it not damned to live in the pitiful chest

[writesoftdarkness]

domestic peace

I wake up feeling rested. The warmth of my bed is exchanged for a hot drink in a mug. I sip it slowly. I pray and observe the notes on my wall. The weather is nice. I sit on my balcony and write. I write what comes to mind, most of it no one sees, but it is for me. I go in and eat. I read with my favorite blanket across my lap. I talk to my sister. I am so proud of her. My mother calls me. I doze as rain begins to hit the leaves outside my window. My heart is now full of whatever fuel keeps it going. I will need it to last.

[writesoftdarkness]

Darlings I visited the Met

[writesoftdarkness]

There is no more pink in me

My hopes are molded white and green

My insides churning gray

This pink, this soft life and bright sea

Was beaten out of me

—no pink, DLJ

[archaic-stranger]

the literature students

nights spent studying in the library, dozens of books piled on the desk before you

lingering in your favorite bookstore

debating with friends about your favorite authors

old books with faded bindings and handwritten notes in the margins

memorizing your favorite passages to recite back to yourself

overfilled bookshelves, volumes stacked on the floor by your bed

scribbling notes to yourself late at night, then trying to decipher them in the morning

beautiful handwriting scrawled across the page

worn out copies of your favorite books

wishing you could resurrect long-dead authors and poets

ribbon bookmarks tucked between pages

quotes by your favorite authors written on your walls

libraries with bookshelves that tower to the ceiling, books as far as the eye can see

carrying a book with you everywhere you go

fancy volumes with gilded edges

deep analysis, dissecting themes and diction and metaphor

leaning forward in your seat during class, eager to share your insights

researching your favorite authors, beginning to understand why they wrote how they did

handwritten copies of poems pinned up by your desk

the ache of finishing a particularly good book, knowing you’ll never read it for the first time again

annotating writing in your favorite pen

a sense of comfort anywhere you’re surrounded by books

[aseaofquotes]

– Simone de Beauvoir