Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moon’s sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen

William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream

wonderlost

ein set aus einer magischen zeit, so könnte man sagen. damals war polyvore noch jung und keiner war auf irgendeine art und weise verbittert oder zu ehrgeizig, alle waren verspielt und versuchten, dieses neue medium zu erforschen, damit umzugehen. das ist ein set aus dieser guten, magischen zeit. es ist weiss gott nicht perfekt, aber das feeling, das ich habe, ist so gut. das wichtigste.

 

 High in the mountains along the Amalfi coast of Italy is a hidden valley with a beautiful waterfall. There, in a tiny hermit’s house with moorish domed roof, lives Vali: beautiful, way-out, painted like Paupin, dressed like a gypsy, with the wisdom of a shaman or a witch. Her Celtic heritage shows in her flaming red hair and green eyes, transposed with an Australian accent. An intense, free child of nature, she is followed by a pack of dogs like Artemis or Diana while roaming the steep cliffs of the valley, hunting for berries and herbs, tattooing in the sunlight a young girl dressed in goat-skin pants who lives in a nearby cave, and making amulets for a love-sick girl who finds her way up the mountain. Weaving dreams, casting spells, Vali is magic.

 

Write up on the back of Witch of Positano (1965), directed by Sheldon and Diane Rochlin 

src 

"As a child she was described as having the eyes of a half-tamed creature, being drawn to the unnatural, with a penchant for improvising tempestuous fairy stories."

Patti Smith, in her Introduction to Wuthering Heights 

ich kann mich noch erinnern, als ich mein blog frozen dawn nennen wollte. alle postings hätten in den farben eines sonnenaufgangs im winter sein sollen. und irgendwie denke ich, dass alles, was ich bin, einfach alles, meine träume, meine gesamte existenz, genauso aussieht. wie ein geforener wintermorgen, wenn der himmel frostig rosa ist und die luft klar und kalt und ein bisschen schmerzhaft, und trotzdem bist du glücklicher als je zuvor.

Lila, Tumblr

am besten war gestern dieser mond, bei tag! bereits um 3 uhr nachmittags erschien sein weisser schatten auf dem blassblauen himmel. später dann wurde er leuchtender, immer mehr, bis das blau des himmels erst von leichtem rosa bedeckt wurde, immer dunkler wurde, bis das blau strahlend wurde. dann kam die abenddämmerung, so früh wie jetzt schon fast surreal, eine ganz junge nacht mitten am tag, und der ganze himmel war voller farben, die keiner mehr richtig verkraften konnte. blasses rosa, strahlendes pink, blassblau, dunkelblau. dunkleres rot, als die dunkelheit des frühen abends begann. und diese stille auf einmal. kein vogelgezwitscher mehr, gar nichts. die natur war vollkommen still. man bekommt ausser diesem moment nichts mehr mit. es könnte die welt untergehen und man würde nichts davon bemerken. es gibt vollkommenheit. nur hat sie mit uns menschen nichts zu tun.

Sometimes we caught sight of tattered knee socks rounding a corner, or came upon them doubled over, shoving books into a cubbyhole, flicking the hair out of their eyes. But it was always the same: their white faces drifting in slow motion past us, while we pretended we hadn’t been looking for them at all, that we didn’t know they existed.

The Virgin Suicides

ＬＯＣＡＬ５８ - Weather Service

And I’m looking through the glass
Where the light bends at the cracks
And I’m screaming at the top of my lungs
Pretending the echoes belong to someone..
…Someone I used to know

 The Postal Service

monday horrortrip

this monday is not the best monday in my life. i can’t explain what is happening to me. it feels like i have a glass body and everyone can look inside and see my hidden fears, anger, uglyness and sadness.
sometimes i feels like u are surrounded by demons in human form. sometimes u just can’t ignore them, that’s when it gets painful. that’s when they get to u.
perhaps i should sleep more. i’m terribly tired, but i know that it’s not my body. it’s my soul. like my soul hasn’t found peace for a long time, and it wears me out. i always loved being strong and i loved to fight..u have to…to survive…this life is a shithole, a bitch and a dreamkiller…but today i’ve stopped fighting and suddenly i was afraid.
a girl with a glass body needs a glass garden. i need glass butterflies and glass flowers and trees. and i dance in this garden and with all my bruises and scars i still think i’m beautiful.

lila on tumblr

falling in love has always been about being consumed by another person. completely swallowed. sometimes it can be a relief, sometimes it’s just threatening and making me sick. tonight i feel that it could be a relief. just letting go. it resembles death or a long sleep.

lila, 2 am thougths, tumblr

DOPE LEMON - Stonecutters

ich fühl mich eigentlich überall allein bis auf tumblr. kein wunder, dass ich im netz kaum mehr woanders hinwill. das gefühl ist überall gleich scheisse, bis auf hier.


lila, tumblr late night

Even when I’m dead, i’ll swim through the earth, like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

 Jeffrey McDaniel

girls are scary

silverlight

did you know how long i’ve been making a fool of myself pretending to
be goth, busily climbing over cemetery gates at night and doing
nightly stuff we used to do?
did you know that i’ve been the ultimate stranger among them,
disliked by so many, idolized by a few
i liked my enemies more

did you know that nobody understood anything i have ever told them
there’s a stillness in me and a vast dead field
there’s no living soul only a vast landscape
and the silverlight of the moon
some laughed, some said you are beautiful
fuck them, i couldn’t care less

this night is an ocean and i think i’m drowning
the glittering fabric of my soul
spreads like the wings of a butterfly
the sky is open tonight. it’s mine.

no i’m not goth. i prefer to be called a night creature.
thank you.

Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

 W.B. Yeats, The Stolen Child (Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry)