This Close 🤏 To Walking Into A Mysterious Fog And Never Coming Back

I need a lot of affection and some rough sex

how to be a god

speak with a smirk, your smile can be a magnet. speak with a scowl, your eyes could cut like daggers.

walk with your head high, let your wings stretch as wide as possible. never look down on mortals, you’re meant for the skies.

dress to the nines no matter the occasion. ballgowns from any time period, victorian suits, knights armor. blood stains are simply proof of your power.

stain your lips with cherries or pomegranates, or even blood. slip daggers into your hair and tie your hair back with gold chains. never forget to adorn your head with a crown.

always touch, never be touched. let your hands roam their body freely, and take your time sizing up your pray. when you kiss them, don’t forget to bite.

carry around books from the crusades, from witches, from the romans. read to remember the battles you were apart of, the stories written after you.

speak in latin, in ancient greek, in ancient tamil. let the mortals know your words have power. scrawl ominous sayings across the wall, whether it be in blood or wine

every day feast as if there’s no tomorrow. accept only ambrosia and wine. sit at the head of your table and unfurl your wings, the world is at your fingertips.

let the women circle around you, shouting your name in a crazed way. let them dedicate their lives to your glory, let them kill to be near you. you are above all.

take your time. time runs by you, drink your wine slowly, scrawl threats on paper without rush, slide your sword into the mere mortal tenderly. you own the world.

“I’m shocked that somebody has not yet experienced passionate feelings for me, poetically in a museum or a book store”

—

I'm some kind of modern-day narcissus myself. 😎

Indian Dark Academia - Delhi (mystery academia)

You spend most of your summer afternoons roaming around the monuments, marveling over the minds of people long gone. you find an old vendor outside Qutub Minar, seated with large stacks of books in front of her. Secrets Of Delhi, the cover of the one hidden beneath the rest says. The vendor mumbles its price and you ignore the chill you feel crawling down your spine when you catch her smiling at you.

The dim light of your candle flickers as you flip through the pages of the book the vendor sold to you. The moon hangs low in the sky, as if intent to see what mysteries you'll unveil. What the Sultans tried to hide, stories buried by time, dangerous lores that might be true; you feel the words sear into your eyes. You brush them off as fictional gibberish as you get ready for bed but you couldn't shake off the feeling that you're being watched. The shadows in the corner of your room shift as if in confirmation.

You vaguely remember your history professor mentioning a mad astrologer who claimed there was a "disastrous" planetary alignment during 1757. Exactly a century before the First War of Independence. You cannot help but think of him now as you run your hand over the walls of Jantar Mantar.

You're strolling through the Red Fort and you find undecipherable inscriptions on a pillar of the Diwan-i-khas. You let your fingers trace the letters as you realize that something strange happened here.

The voices of a hundred sufi saints ring in your ears and your dreams are haunted with memories that aren't yours. You catch glimpses of harems and princesses dancing. A sword dripping with blood and a body buried in the hush of the night. Ruins of deserted mughal palaces where you could still hear the voice of a wailing woman. Delhi's beautiful but she's got her secrets.

—mothers

ijeoma umebinyuo // hyatt moore // class of 2013 by mitski // i, tonya (2017) // ? // gustav klimt // ? // lady bird (2017) // i remain in darkness by annie ernaux

My favourite character: smokes, drinks, reads greek and other dead languages, keeps a latin diary, kills someone by punching their collarbone, weaves an intricate web of lies and plot to escape jail, kisses his unrequited love and then shoots himself.

Me: now I know what Wilde meant when he said 'You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.'

Look at you comforting others with words you wish to hear.

William Wordsworth