Light Academia - Blog Posts

what the FUCK do you mean not everyone percieves me the same way I do?????? what about all my efforts trying to appear mysterious and hot and perfect and interesting?????????? what am I supposed to do now, exist without the self-imposed burden of constantly orchestrating my every action to fulfil a specific outwards portrayal????????????

am i more productive at nighttime or am i so choked with responsibility and duty during the day that my free time is now only ever available to me when in exchange for a sacrifice of tomorrow's wellbeing? (because apparently revenge nighttime procrastination is an actual thing??)

tehe i made a little uquiz you should take it tehehehe

"self-care," i whisper to myself for the fifth that day as i create a new pinterest board to save my silly little pictures to instead of acknowledging the ever-growing pile of revision looming on my consciousness

hot girls be like 'my comfort characters 🤗💐💕' then name the most deranged and psychopathic dredges of humanity who have never felt an ounce of comfort in their life

chaotic academia is learning latin on duolingo

if i had a penny for every fictional hedonist called henry that is possibly probably gay for their best friend and ruined their lives/the lives of others 'for the aesthetic' i would have three pennies, which isn't much, but it's weird that it's happened thrice

i was born in the wrong era. i was supposed to live in the 80s. the 1880s. i was destined to be some rich, idle, ill-fated protagonist of a victorian gothic novel and smoke cigarettes and wear rich fabrics and carry a cane with a carved top and write long, rambling letters in an illegible font to some close friend i may or may not be utterly infatued by and drink red wine at lavish dinners every other night and discuss philosophy and hedonism and sprawl dramatically across chaise longues and and-

i'll always be forever sad that 'awesome' has become so warped in context in comparison to what it originally meant. awe-some, to invoke awe. like?????? i want to be able to use it without sounding like some skater boy from an early 2000's sitcom

i find it so charming that so many ancient civilisations - if not most of them - believed in gods of some sort. like, the world was so inexplicably incredible that, to them, it could be the work of nothing but the divine.

i would love to be able to see the moon through the eyes of some human from thousands of years ago. like, a magic silver orb in the sky that changed shape and colour and moved?? the world must be so much more beautiful when viewed with no context.

the 'having a fun little daydream world as a child' to "i rely so much upon escapism to escape from the monotony of life that days seem to pass too quickly and sometimes i don't feel real" pipeline

me: finds intelligence hot

also me: unconditionally and furiously despises anyone who is even slightly better than me at anything

look all i'm asking for is forehead kisses and academic validation and autumn and museum dates and cold bedsheets and misty mornings and baggy sweaters okay???????

hot girls don't know their lefts and rights

i miss autumn. i miss short days and long nights. i miss the stars. i miss chunky scarves and knitted beanies and thick sweaters. i miss withered orange leaves underfoot. i miss lukewarm rain. i miss cold winds that smell of nature and death. i miss spending grey days reading classics by candle light. i miss herbal teas and bitter coffee. i miss the sting of ice in my fingers. i miss the harsh softness as the world slowly settles down and gets ready to die.

running away to some dilapidated georgian mansion in the moors to persure my writing career and slowly but surely gain a reputation in the nearby village as a potential witch, anyone wanna come?

why do i have to work. like why can't i live in a quaint cottage in the english moors with weather-worn bricks smothered in ivy and bake soft loaves of bread and gooseberry pies and wear bonnets and floaty blouses and carry a little wicker basket in the crook of my elbow and go blackberry picking in autumn and paddle ankle-deep in pebble-strewn streams and-

inside you are two wolves. one is diet coke heart-shaped sunglasses vintage diners red nail polish lollipops soft ice-cream knee-high socks lipstick stains girl blogger. the other is black coffee rainy weather turtlenecks secret history notes app poetry hand-held vhs camera autumn cable-knit sweaters tote bag thrift stores chunky rings.

beauty is rarely soft or consolatory.

quite the contrary. genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

- the secret history, donna tart

sometimes i wanna be red nails and cigarettes and cat-eye sunglasses, but then again i wanna be lipgloss and rose petals and lace, but at the same time i also like baggy sweaters and second-hand book stores and polaroids, but then i think about long scarves and fog and well-worn books, but then i see fingerless gloves and bruised knees and tangled jewellery, but also what about messy braids and daisy chains and knee-high grass, but then-

ink-stained fingers, crumpled sheets of unfinished poetry, withered roses, lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup, dark chocolate, forgotten gods, starless nights, red candles, bloody knees, ribbons in hair

feeling a little goofy, might take part in an ancient ritual in the middle of a forest with a group of insufferable greek students and accidentally kill a farmer whilst in a state of pure enlightenment, idk

thunderstorms in summer, freckles, flowers pressed between the pages of a book, lemonade, daisy chains, bare feet on dewy grass, blackberry juice on lips and fingers, messy braids, stargazing, collecting pretty rocks from streams, late night birdsong, flowers tucked behind ears, daydreaming

"Void" by Astha Kesri

Memories of a thousand moments,

All dance in the late afternoon sunlight.

Like the final touch to the awaited painting,

They shimmer beneath my eyes.

In that moment it feels like time never passed,

Like there's a forever in between my lips and the teacup.

But like an ever flowing river,

the memories come and go,

one by one.

A sad reminder that time never promises.

And all that you feel will last a lifetime,

will be gone in the blink of an eye.

And now I sit on the floor,

surrounded by the rare November warmth.

But I miss yours.

I miss your hand and the soft touches it leaves behind.

And all I now have are the ghosts of your palm,

and the coldness of the paintings that they left behind.

An ache deeper than any ocean runs through me,

and it sadly whispers promises of a forever.

I know they won't be broken this time.

Because I've always known that you were the one.

Fragile is the way you walk along the beach,

looking out at the setting sun.

Fragile is how your voice sound,

when you hum the songs of your dreams.

Fragile is how your eyes look,

when you see a star and wish upon it.

Fragile is you,

sometimes in the morning,

always at night.

But everytime you smile,

fragile becomes my heart.

Everytime you cry,

fragile are my bones.

Fragile has long since stopped being a word to me.

Now it is the state of my being when I am in your arms.

My art is rough around the edges.

Like me, like the way I sometimes feel.

It has its seasons and its draughts.

Somedays, it flows easily.

Too easily.

And those days scare me a little.

Somedays I have to ground myself in it,

be cautious and aware of each stroke.

Those days are the most peaceful.

But yet somedays feel like a forever,

between me and my palette.

I may not be an artist yet.

But there's art in me.

And I see it all around me.

It does not matter,

thhat I can't put a label on the way the brush feels in my hands.

Artist or not, I have a home in colors.

A place to lose myself, and sometimes to discover myself.

Infinte possibilities at the end of my brush,

sprawled like lightning strikes on my dirty desk.

The only thing I know are the songs in my head,

when I close my eyes and think of the next color.

It becomes a little easier to breathe,

when I am surrounded by the smell of paints.

Forever grounded to the carefree version of me,

with the added weight of a tube of color.

Everything falls into place,

the world stays still in a haze.

Everytime I hold a brush and paint,

somewhere in me is born a little girl.

Again.

Please let him go.

You were not meant to be this way.

You should be glowing, flowing through stars and space.

Not sitting tired in a corner, away from everything.

Away from life.

You have years ahead .

Millennias to conquer.

He is but a fleeting dream.

A flash in the evening sky.

Gone as fast as he came,

Never too close to feel the warmth.

So please let him go.

There's no way he'll come back.

Or think of you.

Or wish you'd wait.

He's gone on.

And now you should do the same.

Let him go.

For far more adventures await you.

And I promise your broken heart will feel less broken,

day by day.

Let him go.

Let him go.

Just let go.

The drive is good.

Refreshing, calming.

A little bit silly too.

But I love it, I adore it.

Still, I wish you'd been there.

Holding my hand,

Your goofy laughter filling up the car.

I miss your jokes.

And your happy little giggles.

When I pass the beach at sunset,

I can feel the warmth of your smile on my skin.

A comforting touch of light and life,

a reassurance that you haven't left.

And while I close my eyes and bask in your love,

I know that you miss me too.

I can feel your heartbeat in every ray that falls on my outstretched palm.

I feel it in the way the sun seems a little too close sometimes.

Like I can almost touch it.

Like it's a kiss.

While the warmth of the sunset holds your love for me,

my sunburnt heart loves you with all the colors of a sunrise.

Let us remain like this forever.

Our love,

hidden in the rising and setting

of the brightest star in the sky.