Key

current favourite words:

• esoteric: likely to be understood or enjoyed by only a few people with a special knowledge or interest

• hubris (greek tragedy): excessive pride towards or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis

• trepidation: great worry or fear about something unpleasant that may happen

• hedonistic: based on the belief that pleasure is the most important thing in life

• decadence: moral or cultural decline as characterized by excessive indulgence in pleasure or luxury

• writhe: respond with great emotional or physical discomfort to (a violent or unpleasant feeling or thought)

• acerbic: (of a person or what they say) critical in a direct and rather cruel way

• sanguine: blood red

You ever see a pretty dress, a well-organised notebook, a peculiar balcony or read one line of poetry and get the overwhelming urge to reinvent yourself

I haven’t finished Emma yet, but I have a theory. I’ve had this theory ever since we first saw Emma, Harriet, and Mr. Elton in a room together, but I’m just sharing it now. I think Mr. Elton might like Emma and not Harriet? No, I’m nearly positive. I guess we’ll see?

This very morning, my history professor picked up the book I was reading, looked me in the eye, and said “Don’t read Wuthering Heights.” He then proceeded to walk away and continue class.

This is the post I want you all to spread as much as you can. Do anything but I want it to be seen as much as possible. I don't care for any of my other posts as much as for this one. IF I DIE I WANT THIS POST TO BE SEEN. I WANT THE WORLD TO HEAR.

This is the memory of a 16 year old girl Katya from Mariupol. I translated it to English and I cried while translating. Please read this. Don't scroll. Don't be ignorant and indifferent.

Do you know the feeling of pain? Once I fell in love with a boy but he didn't love me back, and I thought that it was painful. Turned out that the real pain is to see your mother dying with your own eyes. And to see your brother coming to her again and again, asking her: "Mommy, please, don't sleep, you'll freeze". And we'll never visit her grave. She got left in the cold and dark basement.

We peed, slept and ate our last portions of food in the same basement.

Once uncle Kolya caught a pigeon, I think on the fifth or sixth day, and we fried it and we ate it. And then we all puked.

Mom held on until the end, she died three days before we evacuated.

I told my brother that she's sleeping deeply and that we shouldn't wake her up. But, I think, he understood everything. He understood back then when our lady neighbor died and we couldn't put her outside and she started smelling. And then it became quiet for awhile, uncle Kolya put her outside and got blown up by a hidden grenade (my note, this word "rastyajka" means a grenade with a string attached to it, not a stray bomb. It was put to kill civilians coming out from the basements). Mom cried a lot. After Dad's death, uncle Kolya was the closest person to us.

The dead bodies stink so much.

They were everywhere. I closed my brother's eyes with Mom's scarf so he didn't have to see it. When we were running I almost threw up several times.

I don't believe in your god anymore.

If he existed, we wouldn't have had to suffer so much. My Mother never, you hear me, NEVER did anything bad. She never even left uncle Kolya in another room until she got married. She went to church and confessed often, and so did I. Uncle Kolya gave up smoking so Mom wouldn't worry about him sinning. And your god took her away. The pastor told me something about her helping god there, but it would be so much better for her to help god here, by bringing us up.

I hate russia.

My own uncle is there. Do you know what he said to me today on the phone? "Katya? Which Katya? Girl, I don't know you. What war, which Katya?". And then he wrote me from a different number: "Katya, don't write me. It's dangerous for me and my family. And your mom won't come back".

I hate them! It was his own sister?! How possibly can a person do this???

You know what? I think I'm going to come back to Mariupol. And I'm gonna live on the same place as before. And everyday come into the basement of the new building to put flowers.

It's also scary when the kids cry when it's forbidden. It's forbidden because we needed to not be heard.

These monsters found people in the basements and killed them. Those, who survived, told us that the russian soldiers could rape kids, the elderly and even dead bodies.

If there is a god, why does he let it happen?

I don't want to live anymore. We may be separated now, I suppose. I may not ever see my brother again. And why? Why did this putin "save" us? We lived so well, we even bought a car. Uncle Kolya promised to teach me how to drive. And they even burned the car. And our flat is no more. I want to die and I can't.

Please, hug your kids! Otherwise when you die, they might not remember your smell. If I handle it all and have kids, — I'm going to hug them 24/7.

***

This is it. Now it's time for you to do your part. Do a tag game, tag all your mutuals, do EVERYTHING BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS IMPORTANT. THIS IS MY HONEST HUMAN SCREAM TO YOU AND I SCREAM TO YOU TO SPREAD THIS MEMORY. THIS IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS, NOT OSCARS, NOT MEMES, NOT EVERYDAY LIFE. EVERY DAY OF WAR, EVERY DAY WE DON'T GET OUR VICTORY IS THE DAY WE LOST MORE OF OUR INNOCENT PEOPLE. MAKE A GODDAMN CHANGE, PEOPLE!!!

Yours truly

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 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?

ancient greek word of the day: πολυνιφής (polyniphēs), deep with snow

His pillow was wet with salty tears and his eyes were swollen from crying as he woke up. His chapped lips stung with the taste of saltwater. Diana called him.

“What time is it,” he asked, his voice cracking. He hoped she would think he was just tired. She did not.

“It’s just about 8 o’clock. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything but simply hung up. He walked to the South Meadow again, slower than last time. He did not see Theo next to him. After a few minutes sitting at the bench next to the field, he heard a voice behind him.

“You’ll be late to chapel,” it said quietly, worried. Theo popped up in front of him. He tried his best to smile. Theo did not mask the concerned expression on his own face. He noticed a stray tear right under Alexander’s eye, and knelt down to wipe it away. The feeling of his hand on Alexander’s face made his skin tingle. He started to smile honestly. Theo sat down next to him quietly.

It started to rain, and Theo stood up from the bench.

“We’ll be late,” he repeated simply. Alexander walked behind him to chapel.

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.

Hmmm maybe not Mr. Elton, but Mr. Knightley?

This very morning, my history professor picked up the book I was reading, looked me in the eye, and said “Don’t read Wuthering Heights.” He then proceeded to walk away and continue class.

“She was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate! She did not seem created for the sorrows of this world.”

— Hans Christian Andersen, What the Moon Saw (1866)