Light Academia Quotes

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.

It was a perfect title, in that it crystallized the article's niggling mindlessness, its funeral parade of yawn-enforcing facts, the pseudo-light it threw upon non-problems.

Beautiful things are quiet beings.

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.

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thought they saw decided genius in this coruscation. Mr. Casaubon, on the contrary, stood rayless.

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.

What we outlive becomes our cage eventually.

Everything dies once - only love dies twice.

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

There is no crown without guilt - and there is no mercy without a kingdom.

There is no crown without guilt.

A crown is heavy without mercy - and yet the darkness painted the gold with jewels.

No one felt the wavering light of a breath, the heat of Hell churning the dungeon, or the otherworldly darkness visiting the chambers, except the five students. — excerpt from Curse of the Stars

And our own darkness became our kingdom; while the light burnt up each one of our hearts as an act of mercy and revolt - for nothing is build on ashes and too much is written about the fallen ones.

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

Love is too much for our generation.

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

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.

Clinging to Kai felt like the only way out of her mind, the path to light and freedom... but sinking further in the silence of the shadows with Ren felt like relief and peace.

But the Wisconsin tradition meant more than a simple belief in the people. It also meant a faith in the application of intelligence and reason to the problems of society. It meant a deep conviction that the role of government was not to stumble along like a drunkard in the dark, but to light its way by the best torches of knowledge and understanding it could find.

Like you’re a book where every word fills me with such wonder that I must close it in the middle of a chapter and turn off the lights just so I have something exciting to look forward to when I next crawl into bed.

Lorelei wanted forever to bask in the light of her smile. She wanted to be carried on the current of her whims. She wanted to argue with her until she was breathless. She wanted to hurt her exquisitely, again and again, for as much time as they had. The depth of her hunger frightened her.

While every race conversation isn't going to push against the edges of what is commonly discussed, there is more potential to do so than we usually admit. Standing at the edge means we don't carry every conversation from the previous year. It requires a willingness to research the current conversations being held in both popular culture and the halls of academia.

Over the summer I missed the periods of intense academic concentration that helped to relax me during term time. I liked to sit in the library to write essays, allowing my sense of time and personal identity to dissolve as the light dimmed outside the windows. I would open fifteen tabs on my web browser while producing phrases like "epistemic rearticulation" and "operant discursive practices." I mostly forgot to eat on days like this and emerged in the evening with a fine, shrill headache. Physical sensations reintroduced themselves to me with a feeling of genuine novelty: breeze felt new, and the sound of birds outside the Long Room. Food tasted impossibly good, as did soft drinks. Afterward I'd print the essay out without even looking over it. When I went to get my feedback, the notes in the margins always said things like "well argued" and sometimes "brilliant." Whenever I got a "brilliant" I took a little photograph of it on my phone and sent it to Bobbi. She would send back: congrats your ego is staggering.

Love is a delicately sweet suffering.

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.

I always tried to hold on to the beautiful things, never realising that true beauty lies in letting go.

To make the ordinary beautiful — that is true art.

I can not kiss you unless you unraveled every line of my heart and declared with your lips the beauty of our unfading love.

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.

October creeps into the room through faint grey light that stopped dancing on the windowsill since July left. Being haunted by silence makes the air grow weary and faintly colder. I hear the noise of people walking in solitude, thinking to themselves about others— sitting alone in between their steps. Company of ghosts on lonely eves, threading through the rustling of leaves. I can write down what haunts me, yet I cannot read the ones who do. October.

OCTOBER MORNINGS How your eyes gleamed like emeralds once autumn's first day arrived, how amber was the glance that met my tired eyes. Like silk was the light of morning that came through half-shut doors and made a line of gold upon our bedroom floor. Silent creeks empty hallways full of doubt, the room is empty now.

OUR OLYMP At this altitude of wavering faith and dying stars our love could not stand a chance; it disappears slowly within my rhymes sky. Fading along the pale darkness like a path of crumbling anecdotes on old crumpled philosophers' notes. I can not see the moon anymore - neither I can imagine the place where it should rest tonight in the sky of ours, where it used to be so bright. The Gods themselves dare not make a home at this height of our hearts, for even the immortals would refuse to hold sacred a place so high. Even our wishes refuse to fall at the mountains feet, still climbing, trembling, and slowly loosing - defeat.

PRISONS/GARDENS Cages are made for people living on the outside to catch things evil, beautiful or just unaccepted; Nothing ever outgrows the space of captivity nor does it ever bloom. If we ever offered some light to the shadows we hide we could have a whole garden within our society by now.

CROSSROAD Lights flicker above the crossroad shining in green now and then for people who won't cross and red for others - which won't stop; The dull grey splits the city in pieces of lines and corners, sometimes outshined by heavy rain and flooded glimpses of chaos; Broken glass upon crimson roads empty silence and nothing to say - while the city sleeps on and will awake, eventually.

PIECES OF LIGHT I see the art of each heart reflecting the mirror that the world put it in front of - for so long that the lines so once so clear became hate for everything we see - blurring out the real; Seeing a thousand lights reflecting one's own means nothing anymore, now that we live by the one offered by the world; The price of being a small part of everyone's standard is being praised so, we may break into one single piece.

THE MEADOWS OF MEDEA 'The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emerald's 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 meadows still lay weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

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.

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.

Autumn sharpens the night air and paints the morning gold on the edge of winter’s silver breath, dancing delicately between life and death, between 4 pm and 3 am.

THE ART OF EVERYONE And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

FLORENCE Soft emerald valleys lay in crimson light beneath the rolling hills; the waters of the Arno gleam like bronze the city's vein, so still. Each artist at the shore of the river stares in wonder and delight - how far do the lines reach across the bridge, beyond their work? One may seek rest under the cypresses and soft light of the August amber sun - here, at his grave, the city walls lay high around the garden, he knew once as paradise. His dark eyes still seem to pierce the lines of the hills, like he searches for his soul - still; (somewhere between the Arno and the nightfall). The trees - heavily laid with summer's fruit - stand high above the city in marble glance. Clear is now the dark sky - full of shards which dreamers call the stars.

SIENA I wander down the steps along the walls of bricks and high houses - down to the waters that lay deep. Streaming down from the hill on which the old city was built with a tower standing high, that reaches up not far from the grave that these waters lay in. Alabaster is the hand that reaches in it and cold is the heart that touches the pale divine. Beating fast after climbing back to the light and narrow streets - I found now what it seeks. Descending down, down to the hidden stream - oh Siena, my goddess without a pomegranate seed.

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.

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

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.

THE SHEETS & THE LIGHT Sombre echoes that mark the dawning greying on the hill; 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 mirror-faces crossing me on the way back to the place that felt like home - falling back in time.

COLOURS IN THE MIRROR One day my pride will outlive myself and whatever remains of its colours will be remembered by others - for I was always my true self. I live too little for things that make me dream & care too much for fears that sleep in between the fine lines of my weary mind - so write me gentle words, for it may break. My diversity should not be a mistake but a celebration of identity & guiding light to others who ache to leave the numbness of »pretending-to-be«. We are not broken mirrors that hurt the world by showing our true reflection; we are merely hearts used to rejection - yet, their words will only blur but not break our shine.

ATHENA They fall silently. the steps of her arrival - crossing snow so pale even the morning sky would fade into nightfall's amber; For she has entered the palace of gold - her hair braided with hope and tainted with red leaves which colours remind of a hanged man's rope - for her name is war and her crown is crafted out of grief.

WEDNESDAY MIRAGE How far do they reach the rivers of our grieve - far beyond the horizon and deep into a soul; Suffering can feel like drowning in numbness and being awake for days; It's roots growing further then our mind can go and make dark a heart that once was full of light;

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.

THE BALLADE OF SUMMER'S FALL Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.

ASBOLUTION Our paradise is not made out of worldly things but of the broken fragments of heaven - laced with doubt and forgiveness; Nearly silent we promise each other absolutisation for every promise we ever dared to make with words and deeds - yet I feel incomplete.

At a certain point, you no longer hope; you just keep on existing. One day at a time, for the rest of your life. And that feeling is not shallow but runs deep— deeper than any happiness or love could ever run. A vein is a mere line poets like me used to write on and a lifeline where sailors swim towards at night. If we keep on writing and giving, we grow on that existing line with millions of words that save hope - and thus give existence and life.

And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

MARBLE GRAVES The silver moon stands silent between two cypresses - its light leaning against the walls of the old palazzo that lays in ruin. Hidden behind olive groves lays the tomb of forgotten men and unsung heroes. Their souls found peace within the Allgrove's of singing cicadas and rustling long grass. The marble is heavy and their graves cool and dark - deep is their sleep eternal their demise. The moon is slowly covered by a shroud of clouds, cypresses now lay in darkness - silence.

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.

AMBER HEART'S Amber chases the night sky like the stars became fire and gold - and the moon is falling ever closer to the sun he loves so much; So there is not much pain with the world to share, yet we begin to doubt our love and forget our hearts need care. Still, we wish upon the stars to fall faster in love than we did out, so we won't try and pull back for broken hearts are heavy and hard to catch. So while the constellations fade and our souls disappear in their entanglement we hope to learn what it means to truly live again the least.

QUIET WRITING Quiet does not mean that we have nothing to say, or that we leak the power of speech - we rise up and tell our truths even if it feels like people don't like it the least; Writing is our means to have something to tell when we lost our voice suddenly we still stand behind our truths even if it feels like people won't like it. Beautifully are the quiet lines written with thunder and silent boldness - for we can have a revolution inside the pages of nowadays.

DYSTOPIA Dark, early streets and high walls of empty houses a lonesome bird singing a hollow duet with its own echo - autumn feels like spring once you have lost everything and stand with nothing to hold onto at winter's edge - walkways glooming in buzzing orange neon light imitating fallen leaves, making the city's concrete jungle a forest - soon November is here, crawling along the pavement and dulling the grey of the ruins they call buildings - sudden flickering accompanied by loud buzzing: the lights went out while winter's edge cuts violently through the streets & building cracks - the bird stopped singing.

THE MONSTER & THE MAN One obstacle pierces his soul and calls him down the dark road - heavy sighing he must carry on and at last, the thorn is retrieved - with agony in his brown eyes - he suddenly sees: Fever dreams, scarlet on blue velvet, like ink drowning in words - words drowning inside his veins - words that pleaded in vain - words so scarlet... so stained. Empty lines for empty souls that carry too much inside; empty pages for empty hands with nothing else to hide nor to control the beast inside his soul.

The mountains fell in love  with the sky -  while knowing the ocean  is much nearer;  and still,  they loved it the same.

Love is a delicately suffering.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

Art completes our hearts.

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

In one's ordinary life, there must always be a place for something exceptional, like poetry... or love.

In one's ordinary life, there must always be a place for poetry.