I Love Knowledge. I Love Knowing Even The Smallest Of Things. I Love Translating Text And Finding Hidden

R.H Sin

I believe that a morning should never describe a day. Of course, I don’t believe mornings listen to mortal pleas and reasoning, but I try to enact this rule myself. Yet, it is a morning’s nature to bleed into your perception of a day, tint it with sorrow or with beauty. The only times when I forbid myself from enforcing this rule is when my day is unknowingly stricken with a morning of perfect quiescence, an awake before the world has begun to turn. Those rare mornings can feel free to pour through the seams of time and stain the parchment of afternoons and evenings a beautiful shade of rose. I’m quite a hypocrite, I do know.

"I want a boyfriend," no you want to pin a boy to a wall with a dagger to his throat, don't settle for less.

the feel of shaking out your cramping hand as your chopin vinyl comes to end, looking up from your notebook to realize with surprise that the sun had set as you were writing, counting the pages of your notebook you have filled, squinting to decipher your handwriting as it devolved into illegibility at the end, marking in preliminary edits with a bright red pen and a critical eye, laying out the pages on your floor, grinning at the tangibility of your productivity, your success

“It isn’t Spring until you can plant your foot on twelve daisies.”

- Cambridgeshire Saying

Source: Botanical Folktales of Britain and Ireland

the feminine urge to visit an old bookstore and find a dried rose between its pages

Obsessed with the idea of sacrifice in a book being a selfish act rather than a selfless one. Their lover screaming at them: “How dare you leave me in this barren world? How dare you take away my choice to die for you and leave me with this grief?”. They are dead, and their lover is left - a gaping wound - bleeding into the ground. Do they love them so much that they would die for them, or do they love them so much that they forced the other to live without them? Sacrifice as a bitter act. Sacrifice as something wildly violent; something tormentingly cruel — but always, always built on love. Perhaps, they are both martyrs in the end.

Jealousy

Midnight parties in Wimbledon

Sketches of Julius Caesar on idle sheets of paper

Football games in Wales when it’s nearing dusk

Academic trips to South Africa in Spring

Sunsets from Roedean, on Brighton’s coast

Family pictures in front of Rad Cam in Oxford

Sushi dinners and British accents

and boys in black blazers

and evening walks to Grantchester

and Warwick in the summer months and taking pictures of the sun

and hair waving with the onslaught of wind on sunny shores

and Mediterranean villages on the sea

and 4AM strolls in Kensington and Leicester

and dinner dates in Porto Torres

and running through palm-ridden forests

and reading Dead Poets Society and the Secret History in dark corners of rooms with oak wainscoting

and Alexander in Eton tails

and-

To live so much

That I die

When I see you