#dusty books

[argumentativantitheticaldream]

𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔞 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥 || 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

"𝔓𝔬𝔬𝔯 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩, 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬 𝔴𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭, 𝔦𝔣 𝔦𝔱 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔬𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡"

-𝔅𝔯𝔞𝔪 𝔖𝔱𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔯

Warnings: N/A

The cold air pricked my skin and the ice ,that froze the rooftops and cars, rolled off the surfaces in sparkling foggy white clouds, the blinding sunlight shone through the cracks in the buildings. The stack of books in my hands was the only thing keeping my pale hands from becomming numb. The chunky sole of my scuffed calf high boots clicked against the cobblestone sidewalk and goosebumps arose on my bare legs and my hair stood up due to the glacial temperature. Maybe I was being overdramatic but it was bloody freezing.

Walking was the last thing I wanted to be doing partially because of the blistering cold of early winter but also because I had barely any sleep last night for no reason in particular other than I could just simply not fall asleep. I feel my hot breath escape my mouth in clouds of fog that juxtaposed the cold, drying air that surrounded me.

I quickly turn on my heels and swung around the corner of a rather tall building that cast a considerably large shadow across the sidewalk, it was like being engulfed in a blanket of cold and it only resulted in my lips chattering and my shivers to only increase. I skip swiftly down a set of concrete stairs and enter a small library, hanging my coat on the coat hanger and placing my stack of books on the side.

"Morning, Y/N, How were they?" An old lady from behind the counter croakes, she seems nice enough but I had unfortunately forgotten her name after our first conversation causing my reply, consisting of a small nod of my head, left her a little colder toward me. My boots, now making a soft banging noise against the polished wood floors as I hurry to my usual haunt, 'Classics' was scribed in black bold letters above the shelf and I, far too excitedly, started browsing for a new book to occupy me.

After picking my poison, I found myself strolling to the forest. It may seem peculiar however I get no distractions and it creates the perfect ambiance for reading. It had significantly warmed since my stroll to the bookshop which was in my favour as the floor if the forest would not freeze my bottom. I take a seat on a fallen log, amidst the ferns and undergrowth near a stream and get to work with my pile of books.

The scene was almost cinematic, the soft babble of the stream and the tufts moss that acted as a comforting seat. The forest is alive to me. With the earthy scent of wet leaves and damp soil, a thick canopy of wilting trees filtering the soft muted sunlight that fell gently against my skin. The pages of my book, slightly crisp from the exposure to the forests humidity, feel textured beneath my fingers and every sentence pulls me deeper into it's world, yet there is a unique harmony between the world I explore through my pages and one currently surrounding me.

As I turn the pages, the sky above darkens, and I notice the shift vividly-the wind picks up, carrying with it the strong scent of rain. Without warning, the heavens open, and the sudden downpour cascades through branches like flour through a siv. Heavy drops start to bounce from each surface transforming each colour into a murky blend of browns and greens. My surroundings blur as the rain becomes a curtain, blurring the world beyond the nearest trees. I scramble to protect my books, trying to pass through the chaos of the rain.

I stumble into my house, my hair clinging to my skin which was now covered in stinging goosebumps, each one a reminder of the harsh weather outside and my mascara stained fingers where I had wiped the droplets of rain from my soaked face, giving myself the apperance of a shattered painting—half-done, imperfect, but raw in its vulnerability. Each tar coloured streak reminded me of how I could no longer bask in the serenity of the outdoors.

Sauntering around my house aimlessly, I end up in the bathroom and shift my calculating gaze to the cloudy mirror, my makeup still running. I mumble something incoherently to myself almost in pity, I was in a right state. I unbutton my dress, slipping out of it, kicking off my boots and clumsily clambering over the edge of the bath . I twist the hot tap and feel the hot pellets of water ease the cold, letting out a long sigh of relief. My muscles ease under the stream and i watch the bathroom slowly becoming hazed with a thick, hot mist as I wash the rain from my body. Lazily, I place the murky, damp clothes into the wash hamper and slide into a Bauhaus T-shirt and a fresh pair of pants.

I find myself walking into the living room, curling up in my armchair and grabbing a book from my shelf, getting lost in the ink marked pages. The darkness slowly engulfs the room and I place my novel down, staring at a wall waiting for something. I slowly turn the dial of my record player, soft music spilling into the stagnant air and my mind easing up. I reluctantly close my eyes and try to find some rest. For the past week, sleep has become a distant memory. The nights stretch on endlessly, each one a battle to find rest, but instead, they're spent tossing and turning. Even now, in the middle of the day, there's a heaviness beneath the eyes that feels like a constant reminder of the sleepless nights. No matter how tired the body feels, the mind refuses to quiet down. The pillow has become a place of frustration instead of comfort, and each morning feels like waking from a shallow, restless haze rather than real sleep. It's as if a fog has settled, dulling the edges of the day, but true rest remains just out of reach

The quiet stillness of the room filled me with an uneasy discomfort, in my shadowy living room time always seemed to stand still. The air is murky with the scent of aged paper, candle wax and the faint scent of dust that had settled on every surface. Dimly lit by flickering candles, the room felt like a relic, a sanctuary of secrecy that was reserved for me. Shelves filled with books line the walls and the novels have become brittle with age. The golden glow casts long, uneven shadows across the floor illuminating the uneven stacks of records that lean precariously against the furniture.

Darkness drew in and the moonlight cast spots of light into my living room. Biting the bullet, I stood up and changed into something more presentable, I scrambled chaotically through my wardrobe, swiping on some makeup and marching out of my front door, exhaling when the cold gusts of air fill my lungs. I needed to go somewhere, I didn't care where.

[7dreamycloudscapeskies55blog]

[triflingthing]

secondhand books

[ladywaterfall]

Some of my 2000s stickers 💕

[b4kuch1n]

siren

[aseriesofunfortunatejan]

Can I just say I'm extremely fond of this plot-twist bookmark by @bloggingboutburgers... which can create delightfully absurd sights in one's house.

I don't think the sexy part's coming, but fingers crossed.

[mewziesart]

ref and a base art for a pony i got! the book base is from akiramusicangel on dA :3€

[nonadraws]

I didn't ask for this responsibility

[raccoonhusband]

Since nobody noticed Ford had disappeared even within his own immediate family, I'm wondering if Ford willingly estranged himself or was he disowned as well by 1982? Because Bill rubs it in that Filbrick won't want him coming back without millions. Did Ford internalize the trauma of that night so badly he applied the same standards to himself that his dad imposed on Stan? Because at the bare minimum, that was the other intended message sent by Filbrick that night: When you're not useful to me, this is what happens to you.

And as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise I don't think, at least subconsciously, he could really forgive his dad for throwing Stan out, even if he could rationalize it away that Stan was selfish and dragging Ford down. Coping with that resentment by letting his familial ties rot sounds like something he'd do. He's on the other side of the country. He's busy, there's no time. Sorry.

On the other hand, academia doesn't pay, and research grants aren't blank checks. Expenses need to be recorded and budget reports need to be submitted annually. Not that that would be something his parents would understand (Stan clearly didn't). After 4+ years and several PhDs later, when Ford hadn't "payed out", did his dad disown him too?

[rowanisawriter]

[misskaboom]

[argumentativantitheticaldream]

"𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞?"

I've made a post purely to attach a playlist with my favourite songs ever, presumably one that no one will end up listening to. Nevertheless, it contains the greatest songs ever (even the Taylor Swift tracks, give them a chance!). The pictures have zero correlation with the contents of the playlist but whats a post without a black and white, four picture collage. P.S. if anyone knows any good places to buy jeans I would really appriciate it!

xoxo

- MT

[desertfangs]

I love that despite Lestat being absolutely over the moon to be reunited with Louis at the end of TVL—he's so ecstatic to see him that he can barely contain himself!—he still manages to mock Louis’ vampire outfit from Interview with the Vampire *and* his current sweater and pants combination in the space of like an hour.

[gl00mytuesday]

When the Wolf King carries the Hammer, thus are the Final Days known. When the Fox marries the Raven, and the trumpets of Battle are blown.

- Old Seanchan Proverb

[hypercubecats]

Page 5: The physics lesson continues…

Krita brush pack by @abluskittle

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[thedustycat]

1976 reprint of the 1857 "Remarks Upon Alchemy and the Alchemists"