He’s. He’s Singing About Her. HE’S SINGING ABOUT HER

I'd like to thank Holly Black for finally proving that if you want to write a romance between a human teenage girl and an immortal magic man properly, the girl has to be feral. None of this "she's an angel, she's his morality" nonsense, she has to be unhinged and ready to kill a man. Otherwise it's just creepy and weird.

rivals to lovers where the girl thinks they’re mortal enemies and the guy thinks they’re just flirting

I respect poetry so much because it does what I cannot do - say so much with so little.

When I have something Much to say, it takes me just as many words to say it. I say it with words that are each of them bland and common, unimaginative by their lonesome, with the hopes that if I stack so many together and squeeze a single drop of Much from each that it might flow into something meaningful.

When I have something to say, I say it twice. I say it three times. Because the first or second may not have captured the point. Because I do not trust myself to express the full essence saying it just once. Like just now, those last two sentences. I’ll repeat myself a third time for good measure - because I do not say it right just once or twice.

Poems say things in only a half, only a quarter. They choose single words worth more than ten of mine. I want to know how their minds shop for words. I want to distill myself like poets do. I want to trade in all my too many common words for the way they use an extraordinary few.

If I keep writing this, I’ll write it forever. I’ll explain myself again, as I have already, as I’m doing now. With more and different other words, with the hope of saying myself fully, like how all the hatched and messy wanton scribbles from a pen might finally color in a page. I want to change that. I want to not rip the page I’ve oversaturated by the tip of my pen.

I’ll start tomorrow, maybe, to explain myself less.

People should like my favourite books more actually

it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.

Jeff Goldblum as Zeus calling all his god children to complain about the mean humans, but no one is picking up, and his voicemails get increasingly more frustrated, will live rent free in my brain for the foreseeable future.

the way victorie and robin and ramy all loose their birth languages has me in shambles. victorie never really spoke hatian creole, she moved to france at a very young age, and when she tried to bring it into babel, she was dismissed. ramy, who’s from kolkata, who’s bengali, only speaks bengali once in the book and his speech has become rudimentary because the british saw urdu and sanskrit and arabic as more valuable. robin has forgotten cantonese by the time he goes back home for the same reason. it’s utterly tragic it comes with a deep pain that’s hard to describe the pain of loosing your mother tongue.

desi culture (classical dance edition) is not realising you've been in the (once a very uncomfortable) neutral pose for the past hour for no particular reason

purgatory is not a circle in hell, it is a thermodynamics lab where the water refuses to boil and the gas-flask is leaking and the temperature won’t stabilize