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 when sylvia plath wrote âthe silence depressed me. it wasnât the silence of silence. it was my own silence.â and when anne carson wrote âwhy does tragedy exist? because you are full of rage. why are you full of rage? because you are full of grief.â and when jenny slate wrote âand i am getting older but i am not growing up and my heart is getting soft dark spots on it like a fruit that has gone bad.â and when virginia woolf wrote âto want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain.â and when susanna kaysen wrote âwhen youâre sad, you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound.â and when margaret atwood wrote âalready my childhood seemed far away â a remote age, faded and bittersweet, like dried flowers. did i regret its loss, did i want it back? i didnât think soâŚâ and when gillian flynn wrote âi was not a lovable child, and iâd grown into a deeply unlovable adult.â
Dark Academia Fashion Inspiration
Revisiting Theogony
Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.
Homer, The Iliad
"I don't want to go to heaven. None of my friends are there."
-Oscar Wilde
â˘omnia iam fient quae posse negabam - everything which I used to say could not happen, will happen now
â˘poeta nascitur, non fit - the poet is born, not made
â˘qui dedit benificium taceat; narrat qui accepit - let him who has done a good deed be silent; let him who has received it tell it
â˘saepe ne utile quidem est scire quid futurum sit - often, it is not advantageous to know what will be
â˘sedit qui timuit ne non succederet - he who feared he would not succeed sat still
â˘si vis pacem, para bellum - if you want peace, prepare for war
â˘struit insidias lacrimis cum feminia plorat - when a woman weeps, she is setting traps with her tears
â˘sub rosa - under the rose
â˘trahimir omnes laudis studio - we are led on by our eagerness for praise
â˘urbem latericium invenit, marmoream reliquit - he found the city a city of bricks; he left it a city of marble
â˘ut incepit fidelis sic permanet - as loyal as she began, so she remains.
we donât write poetry because