Light Academia - Blog Posts

Anatomy studies, hands.

𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 🌺,

𝘚𝘰 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵.

—Queen Esther

𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖳𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝖮𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺

—𝖠 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝖩𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅.

"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡; 𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦, 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑊𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝘩𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟. 𝐼'𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝐼'𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑠, 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑏𝑦𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼'𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑠𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑."

― Benedict Smith

𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒, 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑤; 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑡𝑦𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝘩𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡, 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑔𝑜. 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤; 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑔𝑜. 𝐶𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒, 𝑊𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤; 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒: 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡, 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑔𝑜.

—Emily Jane Brontë, The Night

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝐴 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝘩𝑒’𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑑. 𝑃𝑢𝑟𝑒-𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟, 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑠𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟.

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑑, 𝑊𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑛 𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑎 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐻𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑐𝘩 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝐴 𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑜’𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡, 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.

—A lady and her quill, Courage Worn in Scarlet and Green

"𝐽𝑒 𝑡’𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐴𝑢𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑑’ℎ𝑢𝑖. 𝐶𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑖𝑟. 𝐷𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑃𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠".

—Michelle Hodkin,The Retribution of Mara Dyer (the third book).

—Sound of Music (1965)

—The Golden Apple of Discord 🍎

𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘰'𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘢 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

—Unknown author, The Last Unicorn (inspired by Peter S. Beagle’s novel)

Golden child, Lion boy; Tell me what it's like to conquer. Fearless child, Broken boy; Tell me what it's like to burn.

—oh darling, even Rome fell // p.s.

—𝓐𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓦𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭

"All I am is literature and I am not willing or able to be anything else"

—Franz Kafka

Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow”. Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

If I cannot love you openly like I wish, if I cannot hold your hand when walking Or wrap you in my arms late at night. Then I will love you silently, in my mind and behind closed eyes For there, there is no rejection or heartbreak. And surely it is better to love silently than to not love at all?

—unknown

────❁───────❁────────❁──────❁────────❁────

Hey 🌸˚˖⋆, so lately I've been thinking of ways to romanticize my college experience and decluttering and re-organizing my digital space with Notion has been helping with this.

What is your favorite kind of aesthetic for Notion.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance."

—Song of Solomon 2:11-13 (NIV)

I swear I don't lack skills to communicate, I'm simply too tired to engage..

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

Today, I encountered a little black girl who looked frail and seemed timid, and it nearly brought me to tears. There was something in her eyes, a glint of quiet pain, of low self-esteem. She seemed afraid to speak, to take up space, to simply exist in the fullness of who she is. And in that moment, my mind instantly went to my younger sister. And of course, to my younger self. I see so much of myself in my little sister. I love her with everything in me, and I would do whatever it takes to shield her from the cruelty of the world—from my father's rage, from society’s judgment, from the harshness I was never protected from. I couldn’t save my younger self from all the things that broke me. The things that silenced me, made me shrink, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. So when I see little girls like that—like her—I feel this deep, aching need to protect them. I glanced at her multiple times today, and she might’ve thought I was judging her. I wish I could’ve told her I wasn’t. That I cared. That in a world where others might overlook her or treat her like she’s invisible, I see her. I would be there for her. But I couldn’t say it. Because that would've scared her off. I hope I see her again. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t this sensitive. I wish I could just numb myself just a little, so I wouldn’t have to feel so deeply all the time. But here I am, writing this with tears in my eyes. Empathy is starting to feel like a curse to me.

—A lady and Her Quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if people even realize how cruel they can be without saying a word. The way they look at me—cold, dismissive, like I’m something to laugh at or pity. It’s not always about what they say; sometimes it’s just the way they carry themselves around me, like I’m less. I feel overlooked all the time, like I’m just floating in the background, waiting for someone to actually see me. And I hate how much I want to be seen, especially by him. I hate how I catch myself hoping for even a glance from him. It makes me feel pathetic, like I’m betraying myself just to feel worthy for a moment. These past few days, I’ve been so angry. Just simmering beneath the surface. I keep snapping in my head, getting irritated at everything. I’m starting to feel like the angry little girl I worked so hard to bury, the one who, for years, carried the weight of her father’s rage. I hate how deeply I feel things, how sensitive I am. Lately, I’ve been drowning. Not in a river, but under the weight of never feeling satisfied with life.

—A lady and Her Quill, Letters to Dead Children: Ophelia's Journal Entries