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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

...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.

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?

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

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

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.

We always hide something of ourselves whenever we create something.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

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

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

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

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

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?

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.

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

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

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

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

Everything dies once - except for love.

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.

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

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

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.

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

Time means nothing when you are in love.

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

Some bury their feelings  in the hope that flowers bloom; (and too many of us die  while waiting forever).

Simple feelings surviving while everything else breaks so fast - touching the edges  just to feel something.

I wanted to write about someone I miss -  and even the ink refused to remember - so, in the end, I was left  with nothing but empty pages; with the greatest words in my mind.

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

While others feared the ghosts of the past, she fell in love with them.

Art completes our hearts.

She lived with too many ghosts inside her mind - maybe that's why she became one herself in the end.

Memories are not always a prison - sometimes they can be a key too.

And I kept each piece that the night offered me - for the night was full of you.

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.

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

You can not break my heart - and call the lines you write on art.

A reverie is one soul’s river; but a word is one heart’s vein.

Champagne lips and tired eyes under endless velvet skies — a love living only for the highs.

And between all  those eternities you realise that art & love my be the only things  that stay long enough  inside one's soul to make an impression.

I used to paint the world golden while drowning inside the silver of your words.

The lights are gone yet your absence makes even the darkness tremble - for nothing feels as empty as a place without you.

And if everything we love  is considered art  then our love is  the greatest masterpiece.

I touched each star you collected for me in vain; Only to see my sky fade  inside the glimmer of a dream.

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

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

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

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

Love is a delicately suffering.

Love is a delicately sweet suffering.

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

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

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.

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.

CHURCH WINDOWS ARE MY MIRRORS Blessed are the scars and the holiness of our hearts. Only saints break it without remorse for sinners, I expect nothing else but playing their part with our gentle soul. Church windows are my mirrors and prayers my gate to heavens end - I find everything by losing myself-nothing was ever lost from the beginning.

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.

EDINBURGH Sombre echoes that mark the dawning that is greying on the hills; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; thoughts are done passing rounds - counting circles inside my head. pale faces of familiar strangers crossing me on the way back to a place that used to feel like home - falling back in time.

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.

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 meadows lay weeping with tears like an emeralds gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. - And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen and yet they keep so many of us in good company for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. - So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadow still lays weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.