Take Care Of Your Costume And Your Confidence Will Take Care Of Itself.

Italian dialects alignment chart

Questions To Ask People You Like:

Favourite classical authors?

Favourite poem?

Favourite book?

Preferred writing utensil?

Favourite place?

Favourite memory?

Most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?

Favourite library?

Favourite painting or sculpture?

Favourite flower?

Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice?

Favourite quote?

Favourite Latin phrase?

British or American spelling?

Favorite obscure fact?

Favorite historical figure?

Favorite romance novel?

Favorite big city?

Favorite small town?

Favorite constellation?

Favorite university?

Favorite British town?

Favorite obscure author?

Favorite fabric pattern?

Favorite song?

Story of their first love?

Ideal plans for tomorrow?

Favorite old French author?

Favorite turn of phrase?

Favorite capitol or city hall?

Favorite old building?

Favorite museum?

Favorite book store?

Favorite folk tale?

Favorite historical story?

Favorite historical battle?

Oxford or Cambridge?

Edinburgh or London?

Favorite Italian town?

Favorite palace or castle?

Favorite noble family?

Favorite royal family?

Favorite century?

Ever written a love letter?

Favorite weather?

Tea or coffee?

If your name was Adelia, which nickname would you choose, Addie or Delia?

Favorite Greek, Roman, or Norse myth?

Opinion on Oxford commas?

Favorite word in a foreign language?

Favorite English word?

Favorite historical time period?

Favorite song lyric?

Favorite things?

Women

"Women, they have minds, they have souls"

"the wholeness after everything toppled."

"I’m so sick of people saying love

is just all a woman is fit for."

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as understood."

"And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself,

because I could find no language to express them in."

"The poets are always correct,"

"What an effort to keep alive."

"The Revolution will end with the perfection of happiness."

but.

"The stars in their courses"

"fight against us, my friend."

I've just learned that some (if not most) people have an internal narrative of their thoughts – almost all of their thoughts are in sentences that they 'hear'

as opposed to other people, like me, who have predominantly abstract non-verbal thoughts. Yes, i can talk to myself in my head if i want, and i often hear a voice when i read (until i get really into the story, at which point the voice disappears), but 99% of my thoughts are completely non-verbal. Like, i'm thinking a million things all the time, but there just aren't words attached to them.

I'm so intrigued by this. Is it always in full sentences? Is it all the time? How do you think two things at once - do the voices overlap, or do you just wait to finish that thought before moving onto the next? i have so much abstract chaos going on in my head at all times, i really couldn't imagine how it could possibly be funnelled into linear sentences???? does it affect how you process things?

my mind has been blown

“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴?”

-𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘰𝘸𝘴𝘬𝘪

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.

Rain pounded on the roof of the car, plunking out a melody.

“What do you think happiness is?” Theo often asked these unexpected questions, so Alexander wasn’t so very surprised.

“Not crying myself to sleep every night,” the words had slipped out of his mouth as he read his book in an uninterested tone. Now he looked at Theo, weighing his reaction. Theo’s face had a puzzled, maybe worried, expression on it.

“Hm.” He didn’t say anything more. Alexander wouldn’t admit that he’d hoped Theo would. Alexander didn’t know it, but that scene near the brook at midnight all those months ago was playing through his head again. After a bit, Theo continued.

“Are you happy?”

“I don’t know,” Alexander said, looking at the rain crashing down on the window. The melancholy that came every night and used to make him cry in Autumn now only resided in his mind as a dull numbness that visited before he went to bed each evening, but it was there, even still. Theo did not enquire further this time, and the two returned to reading their books, Alexander consumed in a secondhand copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Theo skimming through a book of Sappho’s poems.

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?

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.