my-dearest-giulia
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Latest Posts by my-dearest-giulia
and i think there's nothing more beautiful than finding songs, movies, books, places or any form of art that are similar to each other but still different, you know? in a way that it refreshes your heart and mind- like yes, i loved this vibe. i wanted more of it but in a new way.
Love should be easy, like sunshine on a summer day, like peeling oranges. It should be easy, but it isn't.
Some nights I still love the boy I loved when I was 13 even though I never think about him. He wrote me letters every time he missed me and played Panic at the Disco a little too loud. A girl I once held hands with all night told me that a full moon means the sun was happy that day and I still try to make the sun smile every time I look above. And it shouldn't have hurt when I told her I didn't love her anymore, I didn't. But some days I still do.
Love should be easy but it's old photographs, it's love letters that I still keep in a black box by my bedside table. It's puzzles whose pieces don't exist in my memory anymore. Love should be easy. It isn't.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire
hey reblog if you believe that having a different romantic orientation than your sexual orientation is perfectly okay and valid. i want to see something.
If I can talk to you and not be judged, reblog this
That’s it, the Professor is truly the King of Sass
You’re just lovely
Awww, thank you!! Love from Italy!!!
Yours,
Giulia :)
I’m so sorry that I haven’t been able to post lately, but I’ve just been very busy. For the last two weeks, I’ve had a summer course at a *certain British university*, and now I’m in Italy to visit my family and friends (while also taking French classes in the mornings). Between all that and the insane heat in Europe, I’ve been completely exhausted every night. I’ll try to post more, darlings (aka the two people who like my posts)!
Factual
She wants to learn 75 languages
Why are all the best things I write just flowers and vanilla and sunlight? Honestly, I’ve detected a distinct theme. I’m not sure if I’m complaining. I do like flowers and vanilla and sunlight, and I do enjoy writing different types of light, especially that honey-gold, early-morning sunlight. I just wish I could be that good at writing anything else.
Diana Giacometti stood on a crowded platform of St. Pancras Station in London, not quite sure what to do with herself. Her suitcases stood next to her, brown leather accents on green fabric. There were three of them, one and a half were occupied by clothes and toiletries, and the rest were other necessities (mostly various books in Italian and English). She also had a matching messenger bag crossing along her front to rest effortlessly on her hip. This contained her phone, a journal, and a battered copy of The Iliad, which was, quite strangely, in modern Greek, a language which Diana did not know, nor the language of the original text.
She’d just gotten off a two-and-a-half-hour train ride from Paris, which she’d taken after a harrowing journey through Europe. Said journey had started with a nearly ten-hour ferry ride from Olbia (in Sardegna, an island off the coast of Italy) to Rome. Then, after staying in quite a classy Roman hotel (at quite an expensive price) for a night, she hopped on an eleven-hour train ride from Rome to Paris. After that, she took a train across the channel to London, and here she was. The worst part of the journey was the fact that she was travelling entirely alone. Now, she was a thirteen-year-old girl standing alone in St. Pancras Station at 9PM.
Two more trains. She took the tube from King’s Cross (the station attached to St. Pancras) to Paddington Station, her first time on London’s infamous subway system. She was a bit sad that she was leaving London before she’d even stepped outside of a train station, but the fact remained that she needed to be at school the next morning.
After arriving at Paddington, she took her last train to Windsor and Eton Central, only a half-an-hour.
Standing in the eerily quiet streets of Windsor at a time which Diana reckoned was quite near midnight, the cold, just-rained air pressing on her; the past few days felt like a fever dream. Paris and Rome and countless views of European countryside blurring together while clashing with the shiny, linoleum trains and stations, and processed snacks from overpriced stores. She hadn’t seen very many travelers her own age. A band of three British boys, a scared Danish girl, and no less than five French siblings traveling with their mother.
She thought now that she might’ve stood out quite plainly in the crowded European stations, a middle-school-age girl in a tweed jacket standing idly. She’d sometimes whisper lines of the Greek in her copy of The Iliad, sounding out words and phrases that she didn’t know the meaning of. This invariably startled anyone seated near her, while simultaneously shutting her up for the foreseeable future.
Well, now might be a good time to describe the way that Diana looked. She had chocolate hair that poured from her head in coils and swirls, draping itself across her shoulders in a charming way. Her nose was a bit big, and a light, red blush stretched across the middle of her face, like a cat lounging in the sun. Her face was harsh but not ungraceful, an elegance hidden in the way she composed her features. She had large, red lips that complemented her face perfectly, along with unkempt but not untidy eyebrows that arched slightly. Her large eyes were a deep blue, a sea of dark waves, outlined by long eyelashes.
I might also tell you of her character here. It was not unlike the harsh, beautiful Greek that she read from that book. Her voice was eloquent, even-tempered, and she commanded respect around her. The wall that she placed between herself and the world was almost unnoticeable, her façade pinned up on it. She seemed sure of herself and what she said, kind at moments when you’d least expect it, nearly perfect to most people. Some thought her cruel and cold, while others thought her too loud with her opinions, but most saw this perfect self that she had instructed herself to portray.
In reality, she was afraid. She was afraid of herself. She was afraid at every minute that she’d say the wrong thing, wear the wrong outfit, tell the wrong lie. Who she was changed slightly from person to person, and she hated it. The wall of lies she built was splotchy and built of different materials at different sections, having been carefully constructed for years. She prayed that everyone thought they were looking at the same wall, that no one would dismantle it, brick by brick, or knock it over, sending it crashing down on her. Clermont was her opportunity to paint over it all in one stroke.
Only one person had ever managed to build a back door to this wall, and he was dead. It was his Greek book that she carried around, complete with his annotations in a mix of Greek, English, and Italian. She’d catch herself running her thumb over the words scrawled in the margins of that book, knowing that he’d written them all those months ago.
Duke Humphrey’s Library, the Bodleian, Oxford. May 2019.
Re-uploading these because I finally figured out how to format them!! I will never stop being grateful for the chance to study here.
what do you do when the love you thought would last forever just walks away?
what do you do when you know this time its you, its you, its your fault, you chased him away?
what do you do when they hurt you but you know you hurt them even more?
what do you do when you try your best but your best isnt enough?
what do you do when the good ones hurt you?
do you just move on?
do you ever move on?
does it scar you?
do you forgive them?
do you forgive yourself?
21|06|2022
2/30 days of self care
Self care things I did today:
read first thing in the morning
went on a walk in the morning (while listening to an audiobook)
didn't force myself to study when I wasn't focusing anymore, instead I turned to another productive, but more creative project.
Journaled
Today went well, the combination of reading right after I wake up, as I drink my tea, and then going for a walk before studying is working amazingly, I feel very relaxed when I start my daily tasks. Today I continued working on those historiographical articles I have been reading and annotating. I started working on the last one I had downloaded, it's quite long, and mid-morning I wasn't focusing at all on it. I decided not to force myself since I am not fully back at my normal energy levels, and instead I started working on a creative project. I am creating a reading journal I will be gifting at the end of the month. Working on something creative while listening to music felt regenerating. In the afternoon I continued reading the article, and then I planned my tasks for tomorrow. I also did my daily practice of Irish on duolingo, and posted this reading update.
tranquilstudy's studyblr challenge // day 6
Today I am grateful for having listened to my body
What have been some things that have changed for you this month? Are they big things, little things? How do you feel about these changes? How do you feel about change in general?
In general I do not deal very well with change, I never have. Although I have gotten better with the years chance scares me, plus I am a very habit based person in general, which doesn't help. As I was saying I have been doing better with the years, I have accepted the fact that often change is for the better, so I feel like I am (slowly) growing.
🎵: Running Up That Hill covered by Rain Paris
06.18.22
headed to visit friends for the long weekend ,, i always have such a hard time convincing myself to go places when i get in a routine w school or work, but you gotta take advantage of the time you have ig
🎧: the door is closing - spirit of the beehive
If I Don’t Love You
If I don’t love you,
then why,
darling,
explain to me why,
do you look so gorgeous?
Violet light,
weaving itself through strands
of golden hair.
If you don’t love me,
then why am I the first person you look at
when you walk into the room?
Some sort of something
in your eyes
as they dart away from mine.
I forget to breathe.
I see you walk out,
pretending not to notice you.
Pretending not to notice
how your eyes flick to me as you sit
carelessly
with the sun and the blue sky.
I caution a glance
as I walk away.
I don’t love you?
I don’t love you.
P.S. Yes, this one’s about the academic rival.
R.H Sin
No matter how many times i read and finish a book i'll never get used to the feeling of that suffocating hollowness that brews inside me.
That seeping realisation that
that's all it was
a book.
Your poets? Dead. Your history? Secret. Your darlings? Killed. You? Probably not straight
I’m not sure if I’m going to continue working on Achilles and the London Boy.
I’m not sure where the plot is going, and I don’t think my characters are really thought-out, so I think I’ll scrap the project. But, I’ve really enjoyed working on it, and I think that a lot of the scenes have promise on their own. Well, I just wanted to let you all know.
Guercino’s Angels The Angel of the Annunciation, 1646 Angel, 17th century The Annunciation, c.1616-18 The Angel of the Annunciation, c.1638/1639
Marwan & Khaled Fall 2018 Couture
Ahem, I may or may not have read far too many novels recently. How do I know this? I have now developed a slight crush on my academic rival in school. Goodness.
