Pre-Raphaelite Eyes

Writer, painter, jewellery maker. Sometimes philosopher, or as much as a young girl can be without foresaking society completely.
I always make sure whatever I'm feeling I feel it with all of me. I'm always throwing my soul into the strangest of places.
I'm a romantic. I love Victorian romanticism from it's literature to it's visual arts, and love 50's film with all my heart.
I find it saddening that romanticism has been de-glamourised in today's culture. It's fashionable to not believe in love.
I suppose this is my quest in life. Or at least in tumblr. To cast out into the big sea of 21st-century-indifferance a little magic, whimsy and beauty.
When you are not enough. Not even close. Not pretty enough, not clever enough, not kind enough. Not enough. If I wore make up every day would I be enough, just once, for one man? If I batted my lashes and flirted? If I was stronger? That question, screaming under every syllable I pronounce, what is wrong with me? And then at the end of it, when my mind has silenced, the knowledge there is nothing wrong. The quiet surity whispers me compliments. I am strong, and I am pretty. Because deep under everyone’s skin is everything.

When you are not enough. Not even close. Not pretty enough, not clever enough, not kind enough. Not enough. If I wore make up every day would I be enough, just once, for one man? If I batted my lashes and flirted? If I was stronger? That question, screaming under every syllable I pronounce, what is wrong with me? And then at the end of it, when my mind has silenced, the knowledge there is nothing wrong. The quiet surity whispers me compliments. I am strong, and I am pretty. Because deep under everyone’s skin is everything.

Everyone’s pain is equal and important. To say someone’s agony over a lost love is not as important as the pain of someone in a war zone is both annoying and narrow minded. A person in emotional pain is a person hurting, regardless of reasons or justification. Just like happiness is happiness, no one’s is more valid than the next person’s. Effect is what matters, not cause.

—Myself :)

Black and white. Purity, subtlety, cleansing. When you can’t fix a blemish, you turn it black and white. There’s no room for excuses, in the clash of dark and light. Evil or good, perfect or worthless, sugar or blood, you’re pure, or you whore.

Black and white. Purity, subtlety, cleansing. When you can’t fix a blemish, you turn it black and white. There’s no room for excuses, in the clash of dark and light. Evil or good, perfect or worthless, sugar or blood, you’re pure, or you whore.

lovedesignlife: Just one of Harry Clarke’s many gorgeous illustrations for Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1919 edition). (via Co.Design)

lovedesignlife:

Just one of Harry Clarke’s many gorgeous illustrations for Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1919 edition).

(via Co.Design)

(Source: 50watts.com)

Dreaming, dreaming as always of some time long past; seperated from me by something stronger than love, or life. Time. To be a person out of time, an anomaly born in the wrong era and place - only daydreams will ever satisfy.

Dreaming, dreaming as always of some time long past; seperated from me by something stronger than love, or life. Time. To be a person out of time, an anomaly born in the wrong era and place - only daydreams will ever satisfy.

My adolescent Pagan Rituals in the middle of the night.

My adolescent Pagan Rituals in the middle of the night.

By myself. A woman’s relationship to beauty is such a peculiar thing. Whenever I feel that bitter, painful, bruised feeling of unattractiveness or physical inadequacy, I draw a picture. Of a woman. Of beauty, in it’s pure form. We women might feel haggard and worn from the world. But we are yin, or little walking vessals of ‘Mother Nature.’ Perhaps this particular woman in my drawing looks gaunt. It’s how sadness feels to me. Bony, frail, thin. It always cheers me up to turn a sad image into something beautiful. So here she is. My sad, gaunt, beautiful woman.

By myself.

A woman’s relationship to beauty is such a peculiar thing. Whenever I feel that bitter, painful, bruised feeling of unattractiveness or physical inadequacy, I draw a picture. Of a woman. Of beauty, in it’s pure form.

We women might feel haggard and worn from the world. But we are yin, or little walking vessals of ‘Mother Nature.’ Perhaps this particular woman in my drawing looks gaunt. It’s how sadness feels to me. Bony, frail, thin.

It always cheers me up to turn a sad image into something beautiful. So here she is. My sad, gaunt, beautiful woman.

My love for Linton is like foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware. As winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliffe resembles the eternal rocks beneath. A source of little visible delight, but necessary.