Dark Academia Love Quotes

It always makes me a little sad when you laugh," Julian went on. "The way it sort of takes you by surprise. I love it, it has that sweet sincerity that's the best part of you, but it still kills me how you never seem to expect it. All I want to do is make you happy, and you're the unhappiest person I've ever met.

This girl who was soft at heart, who was both the vast, dark woods and the glorious light of a full moon, who was angry at all the thousand tiny ways she’d been hurt in her life.

Don't resent me when I've only just gotten you, please, for I am what makes this world beautiful.

Autumn is a poem - while you fall for everything, you remember that there is something worth dying for.

One reads poetry because he is a member of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion! Medicine, law, banking- these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, romance, love, beauty? These are what we stay alive for!

We were never supposed to be in love; for everything that exists inside a heart eventually dies.

Women's liberation is one thing, but the permeation of anti-male sentiment in post-modern popular culture - from our mocking sitcom plots to degrading commercial story lines - stands testament to the ignorance of society. Fair or not, as the lead gender that never requested such a role, the historical male reputation is quite balanced. For all of their perceived wrongs, over centuries they've moved entire civilizations forward, nurtured the human quest for discovery and industry, and led humankind from inconvenient darkness to convenient modernity. Navigating the chessboard that is human existence is quite a feat, yet one rarely acknowledged in modern academia or media. And yet for those monumental achievements, I love and admire the balanced creation that is man for all his strengths and weaknesses, his gifts and his curses. I would venture to say that most wise women do.

I promise to see you, exactly as you are, as often as you let me.

She was so much like me that it often felt like talking to myself. There was a unique kind of comfort in that.

medicine, law, banking- these are necessary to sustain life. but poetry, romance, love, beauty? these are what we stay alive for!

...that means we’re in love,” His eyes were never leaving her lips, “madly so.” The spirits waltzed across the leaves, enclosing two lovers, singing their own melody as the bodies became one.

How easy was it to just grab a handful of you before you dissolved? If someone asks you tell them loving you was the closest I came to seeing God.

Aren’t we all straving - just for different hearts?

In the grim, dark hellscape of academia, graduate students were the lowliest of creatures and therefore had to convince themselves that they were the best.

Alice reminded me of the woods: vast and beautiful and dark, but overgrown with defence mechanisms; thistles and hogweed, poisonous mushrooms and gnarled roots. Talking to her was like grabbing a fistful of nettles.

We always hide something of ourselves whenever we create something.

You can't break my heart and call the lines you write on art.

A human life is a beautiful thing," he said. "You humans.... you feel. You feel so deeply that it consumes you. There were humans I kept a watch over, though I would blink and they'd be fifty, sixty years older—and the time would come for me to meet them. For the longest time, I pitied them for their short lives. And I admit, Signa, that I have grown more callous with my age. But I have also grown to admire humans. They've such a short time to experience their lives, and so they must feel deeply. They must experience in one life-time things it's taken me an eternity to experience. When I see men like Elijah, rather than feel guilt for what I've done, I remember that he feels sorrow because he loved so deeply. And were I not real, Little Bird, were I not Death, he would never have experienced that love. So which is better? To live forever, or to live and love?

Either way, there was the clear sense that we were no longer just background characters in each other’s lives, passing through the periphery with mutual disdain. Our roots had suddenly and irrevocably knotted together.

I can not be a part of myself - for everything that creates my soul incompletes my heart.

There is a part of you I can't quite forget - where my memories grow flowers and the past outreaches my gardens gate; where the words I rather forget become a book of regret.

Irrationality is the absolute absence of ones mind and the full consciousness of every feeling.

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

Aren’t we all starving - just for different hearts?

Julian pulled himself closer and rested his head in the crook of Paul's arm. "It's that what we call 'love' is actually letting your identify fill in around the shape of the other person - you love someone by defining yourself against them. It says loss hurts because there's nothing holding that part of you in place anymore. But your outline still holds, and it keeps holding. The thing you shaped yourself into by loving them, you never stop being that. The marks are permanent, so the idea of the person you loved is permanent, too". Only as permanent as I am, Paul wanted to say.

For the ink is the same each day - but the words are blooming in colours no one has ever seen; for my words are flowers, and your love is a garden.

His hands that bore pain, brought death, milked blood were tracing over her skin like it was made out of crystal glass.

For we've all carried too much - maybe that's why, when we all lay down something, it feels like everything is leaving, and yet - too much remains.

We die by loving something that the world created.

What defines a romance? All scholars seem to converge on a single point: it is a story that must have a happy ending. And why is that? I say, it is because a romance is a belief in the impossible: that anything ends happily. For the only true end is death - and in this way, is romance not a rebuke of mortality? When love is here, I am not. When love is not, I am gone. Perhaps a romance is a story with no end at all; where the end is but a wardrobe with a false back, leading to stranger and more merciful words. From an epistemological theory of romance by Dr. Edmund Huber, collected in the Llyrian Journal of Literary Criticism, 199 AD

One reads poetry because he is a member of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion! Medicine, law, banking- these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, romance, love, beauty? These are what we stay alive for!

We shouldn’t be doing this,” “No, we shouldn’t,” he agreed, thankfully not stopping. “I need to stay away from you. I don’t know what sorcery this is,” he whispered to her, his words floating over her face as he leaned closer, “but I have to stop.

You can not create something without love and expect it to be great.

Melancholy skies and empty fields of gold grey clouds and emerald days our love in pieces captured only by poems (of mine).

With flowers in mind nothing inside the world seems cruel.

My only mistake was that I loved simple things too much and cared not enough for the difficult ones. (that is what maybe broke the world and myself).

My lines do not borrow your love - they create art so I can admire it forever.

Silver may paint your words - but gold speaks in a way that outlives the greatest poets.

Crimson lines paint different hearts once your heart got broken by golden lies.

There are stars inside the universe nobody ever wrote about; so what keeps us from hoping and loving the ones we see each day?

And the silver of your lips could never match the gold of your words.

Art makes something out of everything - yet it does not make everybody an artist.

I can be whoever the world wants me to be - so I decided to be a scandal: being completely myself.

Forgetting someone you once loved: it’s like erasing something of yourself forever -freely; Being someone else for a second that will change a lifetime. You let go. You feel lost. You will live.

People seemed to live so differently in the past, with real purpose and romance—true romance—born of suffering and sacrifice and courage, not this modern-day idea of romance made up of cheap words, alcohol, and trivial gestures….yet she also knew this was a stupid desire, a product of her peaceful, privileged life that romanticized suffering as a way to feel something deep and meaningful.

I dared to dance along broken lines and I cut myself - only to rewrite the words with meaning.

The scars of my heart wore ivory and the lines on my mind told crimson lies.

Change is beautiful inside a kind of world made out of constant

How magnificent a lifetime feels once it is held together by something that is worth loving forever.

The whole truth is, I'm in love with him still.

Those deserted lines of love and pain  kept your love wandering  - and by that alive -  so that one day  some restless thought  would stumble upon your eternity.

Some break their hearts themselves only to be healed of the wrong love faster.

Time means nothing when you are in love.

My love is so fragile; and still it chooses your hands to bloom.

Some souls are too broken  to return to the stars they once belonged to.

Don't ever let the scars on your heart define the way you love. 

You can only hold onto a soul forever when you touched it with all your heart.

The right way to admire something is to love it unconditionally.

Everything outside of our mind is endless - so why limit oneself?

The ink I write with  is borrowed from the stars -  too blue to be the sky  and too dark to be its night.

We can rest on each other's hearts - yet our dreams keep on wondering. 

And the home we build for our love ended up keeping it out of its own walls.

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

My love dances quietly, so it does not wake the memories of you.

I wrote so much about our love that the feeling itself turned into art.

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

My end is a curve of infinite love - a way of suffering while feeling deeply loved.

The entire world is breakable, you only feel that once you fall in love with something in it.

Suffering is easy, once you have a heart; it becomes unbearable once it is broken.

You can not create something without love and expect it to be great.

Everything dies once - except for love.

The art is already in the picture; we only have to set the colours free for hearts that have not seen love yet.

Crimson lines paint different hearts once your heart got broken by silver lies.

What our love dreads the most is the fear of never loving - not the thought of following the wrong hearts.

One mans scandal is the beginning of the morality of others.

Time stood still, once I first met you. And after you left me every second began to hurt... for I was trapped inside our eternity.

Love takes up the most place in our heart - that is why we make it our home.

Life is too short to not write something great at least once.

The triviality of the world becomes more important after realising ones own existence.

STARVING PIECES A heart starved of love will break itself and shed the pieces quickly - so it has less to feed with love.

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

Art is craving the soul - that is why artists never go to heaven.

3 A.M. SAINTS It is 3 a.m. again and you are showing me all of your sins by holding up your scars to the starless sky. Painting the entire universe with gold and clothing my velvet heart in purple - we become saints within those unholy hours close to dawn. Still, the world is spinning - even though it feels a little slower now - while the silence carries us away into the next day.

Forgetting someone you once loved: it’s like erasing something of yourself forever -freely; Being someone else for a second that will change a lifetime. You let go. You feel lost. You will love again.

Lee believed heartbreak was reserved to those who loved without being loved in return... She learned, that night, that heartbreakk could also exist between two hearts who yearned for each other without ever reaching one another.

VALLEY The valleys climb towards the sky in the early morning hours - seeking horizon's lines; More than the gravestones do with all the memory lined neatly up and half-forgotten - nearly washed away. Our sun is doomed to meet both.

That’s the thing about love, isn’t it? When you find someone who sees you in a way no one else does, who understands you and makes you feel like you can’t be whole without them, it wraps you in a vise and makes you forget how to live without them.

A SIMPLE DRAFT Sometimes a simple draft can make a poet whole that is left with half a heart and feelings for a hundred it would take to bear. A few words can cover the whole world, creating light for the darkest of lines one can call a home or paradise - only a few can also lay bare their soul.

CONFESSION Sometimes I feel like the lines of mine are in the way of every love that tries to cross the last bridge I have left leading to my heart. For I burned every other one while numbing the wounds the fire caused - setting alight to all that is left of me. I must admit that I kept on to the match, long after it burned down and reached my fingertips.

He had promised to let Julian speak without arguing; the promise was the only thing that kept him steady. There was no revering him anymore. Only love remained, and it was a fragile thing that Paul had been desperate not to see. He couldn't stand to look at the truth, even now. All they were--all they had ever been was a pair of sunflowers who each believed the other was the sun.

Maybe threats and taunts and anger and violence were the only things he’d respond to. Maybe patience and love and time weren’t good for him, not to snap him out of the darkness he’d sunk in. Thinking about it, Lee couldn’t see why she hadn’t thought of it sooner: Ren and her had always been drawn to raw emotions… pain, anger, jealousy, envy, wrath, lust. They were fire, and would only respond to flame scorching their hearts, poking at the pain, tearing it out at the root.

BLOOMING SCARS Those flowers dance around vour marble bust like they were fearing October's kiss - gently they laugh and fall asleep on vour stone veins and cold lips. For they love their names written upon your chest in gold for your heart may be broken, yet it is searching for something untold. They do not know that silver mends the scars that the years formed and the cracks on your skin the sun caused - so silent, still, and weary are the blossoms with whom my love for you is betrothed.

The matter both intrigued and unsettled him : would both their fires keep burning bright, or would they suffocate each other, consuming all and everything around them? (...) Lee was something else, more than a simple fire; she burned like a shooting star. Enflamed, consumed from within, drifting along and brightening the horizon. Lee was as stubborn, loyal and driven as he was... lonely, yet, surrounded by people they loved, individuals who fueled their fires, gave them a reason to shine. Does fire burn fire? Could they learn to become one giant pyre?

I kept every letter - only to be reminded of the wrong one's words can cause (to the heart).

Everything dies once - except love.

Love keeps the most of ones heart to itself - so it is important to remember oneself while writing to another about it.

To create a masterpiece means to take all seriousness out of life and into one’s art instead.

All imitation is useless when it does not cause the subject to love the imitation more than its original.

The secret of morality is to preach about it long enough, until everybody believes it - and to stop before you do yourself.

Whose love was it that she so stupidly, accidently manifested? Once it became tangible, this love gained a carrier and an object of application - an object and a subject. When Sasha burned it, what happened to these people?