you're an obsessed artist with fleeting sanity as you work to complete a masterpiece (dark academia)
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- Опубліковано 23 жов 2021
- a special thank you to @ares1ya on instagram ( aresiya.carrd.co ) for helping me add in the audio. her writing is utterly perfect and for anyone who enjoys reading anything at all, i highly recommend her work. i absolutely love this trope and i'm so happy with the way this playlist turned out xx
10.23.21
spotify playlist ── open.spotify.com/playlist/5jl...
discord link ── / discord
my ko-fi ── ko-fi.com/oliviaalee
about me ── oliviaalee.carrd.co
timestamps ── located in the comment section.
copyright ── i do not own, nor claim to own any music or pictures used in this video all rights go to the original owners.
trouble with adds ── my channel is not monetized, therefore i have no control over the adds that get put into my video. if you want to get rid of them, you should skip to the end of the video and press the "replay" button. - Фільми й анімація
!time stamps!
0:00 - 0:59 talking audio inserts
0:00 - 3:07 Requiem, K. 626: Lacrimosa
3:08 - 6:02 Swan Lake, Op.20, TH.12 / Act 2: No. 14 Scéne (Moderato)
6:03 - 9:59 Chopin Etude #11 in a Minor Opus 25
10:00 - 11:10 Piano Study in Mixed Accents
11:11 - 13:53 Violin Concert No. 2 in G Minor, RV 315 "L'estate": 3. Presto
13:54 - 26:11 Concerto for Violin and Orchestra no.2 in D minor op.22: 1. Allegro moderato
26:12 - 30:00 Song of Time
30:01 - 34:39 Scherzo-Tarantelle, Op.16
34:40 - 37:17 String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor, Op.110: 2. Allegro molto
What do you mean song of time?
I heard this and started studying at 1 in night.this the best study motivation. Thanks so much for this.
Oh my god love this 6:30
Ive never been more ready for the authors to arrive
You called? 😉 Just posted one of my mini pieces. Enjoy! 💛
Edit: It keeps getting deleted but I’m going to try reposting 😄✌️
Hello there
You summoned me?
working on a wip right now! might post what i've written while listening to this
here
"It has to be perfect. No matter what." He whispered as he slowly dipped his brush into the paint. "I can do this." He muttered as he brought his brush to the canvas. Each stroke he made added to the masterpiece he was making. The mix of colors told the story he wanted to portray. The woman he was painting had light green skin and a sad gaze. He took a red paint, as dark as wine, and painted streaks around the face. "Anger." he said as he added even more paint. Her hair was being held by a hand and her mouth was covered by another hand. Many hours passed, yet the artist didn't stop. "Finally. My David is completed."
Whoa that's good!
@@cherryheartssz Thank You So Much!!
Delightful! Where is it taken from? Feeling curious about the whole story
@@Ana-eh9mr I wrote it! Lol
@@glucose4804 I'm so fascinated!!!Do you have
the continuation of it?
This title is me right now with all of my papers due 🤣😭
Lol same 🤣
This is alreading giving immaculate Basil Hallward painting Dorian Gray vibes and I'm living for it.
Also Frankenstein creating his monster!
I see it!
THIS IS LITERALLY THE PLOT OF THE BOOK IM WRITING ATM I LOVE YOU
Say lesssss! You got any writing accounts? 👀
Don't be shy give us the link when ur done bestie 🤩🤌
A paintbrush touches the canvas,
suspended between old fingertips
it traces the world in the color of life,
Eyes flicker between darkness,
and the esoteric art
in between the maddening colors,
there is serenity
Each and every act,
descends the maker deeper
almost as if the artist
is a part of the art
the colors start to blend-
lines become blurry
-reality becomes illusory
a trip, a fall
and (anything) becomes the (everything)
the artist falling into the unhinged spirals
descending
into a
vexing
waltz; -
- ;and after the distant storm passes
pictures becoming clearer
there are eyes that gaze
upon upon the masterpiece
The hours of mania
piled into a piece,
a gift to those peering eyes
that look upon the work
they mesmerize over the rigor of-
how the artist fell into the art.
wattpad: cupidsbeloved
!poem explanation!
In contrast to other poems of mine, this poem relies heavily on its format in order to convey the illusion of slowly becoming obsessive and 'losing sanity.' This attempt was made in the change from using capital letters and commas, to lowercase letters, shorter lines, longer spacing, and almost unorganized punctuation (parentheses, dashes, semi-colons.) I really hope this poem conveys the atmosphere and story it was meant to, and you enjoy reading it despite it's nature. Thank you
Woah! Your poems are lovely :)
This is so amazing..
@@lareveuse9980 Fun fact! When a line runs on with no full-stop or comma at the end, this is known as enjambement! The word derives from French. This is used to create a sense of continuity, or continuity and abrupt stops when this is used not throughout the whole poem.
omg what thats so good
a drabble:
“Madness is the greatest present an artist can receive. The ability of the mind to wander, wonder and ponder. The ability of their words to make even the simplest words and dumbest objects remarkably beautiful is astonishing. Madness, is the greatest beauty. Madness, madness. Madness is a gift every artist doesn't know they need to have, cause sometimes sanity cages our mind, setting boundaries and standards no one even cares about. An artist who had long given up his sanity is boundless. They can do everything they want, dancing with madness like waltz and notes of rhythm flowing ever so gracefully in the air of greatness. Dance along with it perfectly, and you'll succeed, stepping on a wrong note and stray out of tune- and you are doomed. Madness, is the greatest gift an artist could have, and yet again a weapon that could lead to one's downfall.” She chuckled, tapping his shoulder as she stared at the painting she had created. “Madness and love is the same. Paintings and poetry, novels and music. All a product of dangerous desire and passion fueled by love. And love is the constrained form of madness, too much and it could lead to chaos but rarely- a splendid romance, a masterpiece. It all depends on the hands of the artist.”
“And what are you?” He asked, unsolicited trembling of his voice heard as he loosen the tie around his neck.
She cackled, picking up the leftover pain on the floor, and with a wicked grin over a beatific smile, she grabbed a handful of black paint, mercilessly throwing it on the canvas adorned with the most beautiful artwork now put to waste.
Daryl falters, alarmed. “What are you doing!”
She kept splashing black paint onto the painting, ruining the beauty of faded green grass and light mustard sun with hues of blue clouds and the face of the girl who asked for that portrait. She continued throwing paint, and another, and another, and another like a mad woman. She giggled, stopped, and green eyes met blue ones as she took a step closer to him, lips taunting him with a sly smile.
“Apologies, I thought I was being obvious?” She laughed, inching even closer. And with a plash of black paint on her cheeks, black paint on her hands and a gentle hush, she whispered;
“I am madness, darling.”
NO WAY DID YOU WRITE THIS .. THIS IS SO GOOD
omg this is great!
Drabble you say?
We need more people like these who understand art in it's truest form.
Wow, i love this.
Pov: You sit by a window and watch your surroundings slowly turn into a winter wonderland. Snow flakes slowly fall, each perfectly being placed to make the masterpiece you see. You take a notepad and pencil and bring it close to you. Carefully you take the pencil and begin to sketch. In the background you hear music being played. "Perfect." You thought as your mind began to travel elsewhere. You imagined sitting outside making a snowman with your friends. A warm feeling filled you up as you began to sketch what you thought. Every minute that passed your masterpiece was becoming better and better. "How beautiful" you heard an unknown voice say from behind you.
My birthday is on 25 October and i happened to be an artist, i see this as a gift, thankyou
Happy birthday!!! 🎨👩🎨👨🎨
Happy early b-day 🎂
happy birthday to u may all your wishes come true :>
happy birthday 093, have a good one 💕
happy birthday! same birthday as lee minho, haha 💗
The eye for art is rare, but one glance from the exclusive one we talk about- is enough to prove the beauty of the world we refuse to look into.
This video receives the award of “most oddly specific video in my recommendations” today
I'm a student majoring in design, this is my 5th week of school, and I'm starting to feel overwhelmed because I used to make arts freely and people praised me, but now I'm making arts because I'm always being chased by deadlines. I no longer know if my work is good because when I feel satisfied, it always turns out that I am not enough. I always thought that there was no right or wrong for art, but now I'm like always chasing perfection.
You can do this, dear. If you need a break, do consider one. Do not let your passion for art grow into something that will overwhelm you. Ofc deadlines are no joke and the process is tiring however, do not let doubt play its way into your mind. Your brain is just tired sometimes,that's it.
So take a rest if you need to. Heal and learn.
Remember you are your own person and your art is unique to yourself.
I assure you, you will be just fine.
"I was once a hero too."
His voice hoarse as he speaks, his eyes captivating my soul.
I knew he was hurting and he wanted to just let out those tears that he's been holding back since God knows when. His eyes, they were as cold and intense as a snowstorm.
"I was delusional and wanted to save everyone. Just like you. But you know what?"
His palm grasped my face as the blade of the knife stayed against the skin of my neck.
"Life doesn't let you be a hero. It breaks you, it destroys you, it gets you on your knees until you give in."
He grits clasping the blade a little further as I let out a slight gasp, my wrists behind me cuffed.
"Maybe you didn't try hard enough."
I speak, my voice numb as the words leave my lips.
His eyes met mine when I felt the thrilling contact in my bones. Pure hate reflected in them as they had the burning desire just to slit my throat but the chains of fidelity towards the authority restrained him.
He leans forward, the tips of our noses brush against each other as I part my mouth a little to control my breathing.
"You think you're superior?"
A mirage of a scowl at the corner of his lips. His green eyes looked through mine.
"No. I might not be superior," I speak.
"But at least, I'm not a quitter."
Provoked, his eyes darken.
"You're playing a risky game, that too unaware of the consequences." He mutters.
"I can end you right here, right now."
I let out a small laugh, provoking him further as his grip tightens around the knife and I feel the slightest pinch against my neck.
"You can't end me, you don't own that kind of power."
I challenge.
"Go ahead then," His eyes flicker between mine as his features sharpen.
"Paint me as a villain in your story."
"Oh, I don't have to." I say, looking dead into his eyes.
"Because you already are."
****
I'm writing an enemies to lovers story on Wattpad that's called 'Destined [h.s]' if anyone's interested. My username is 'Louisgurl1D'💅🏻💌
wattpad-ass writer
and daydreaming.
always.
to put daydreaming on paper-
for every wild thought and dream that
lingers,
every untamable reverie,
to ensue in real life-
that,
is the hunger before
starvation.
The paintbrush caresses the canvas like a delicate whisper, leaving behind an blissful stroke of color. All one can see is the beauty of a begun painting, the start of a new story, the threshold of another life.
“The threshold of another life” is such an absolutely beautiful line
@@jules894
Aw thank you, I appreciate that
Like a delicate whisper ooo
@@jules894 i agree yes this line is beautiful
@@squishylee427
Yiss
pov (i haven't written in awhile so excuse me if it's bad):
the paintbrush had been held so long it had bruised his fingers.
his eyes fluttered at the countless pages sprawled on the paint-stained desk.
the sunlight was golden, and pierced his eyes.
sweat beaded at his forehead, but his long fingers would wipe them away along with the salty tears that raced down his sunken cheeks.
it wasn't enough. they weren't perfect.
every line, every curve, distorted and warped to his horror. every shade turned gray.
he shoved away the paper and it joined the other rejects.
he had to try again.
Deliriously he worked,
Mania he searched,
Life aspirations were his artwork,
All unhinged,
Wasted on sparkling desire,
Fated for twisted love,
Met sentimental eyes,
That were tipsy only for his ghosts.
oh i ADORE salieri’s final monologue in amadeus it delights me to hear it
i relate to the title and i can’t wait to vibe with this playlist!!!
"Harold?...your presence is required downstairs." I call out after I knock twice on the massive wooden door, carved with beautiful depths and curves.
I wait.
No answer.
I knock thrice now.
Still couldn't hear him. No sign of any sound.
"Harold...? Are you in there?" I grip the handles and turn them slowly. The double doors open up with a loud creak. I crane my head inside.
The view infront of me was the same. No changes. The coldness, the dark, except for the light that enters the room from the window that faces our meadows, and the smell of paint.
"Harold? I've been calling you...can't you hear me? Sister is dying....she desires your presence."
I can make out his distinct figure sitting by the window, a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. He sat infront of his canvas which seems to contain some kind of a figurine. I called again, But no answer yet.
"Harold!" I shout out. Louder this time.
He must have heard me now. At least that's what it seemed like as he jerked his head up and looked out the window.
"Speak, Harold." I demand.
He turned to look at me. Painfully slow.
"I told you not to disturb me." He informed.
"Sister is dying. Harold." I said.
"Tell her not to die yet. I'm making this for her. It'll be a waste if she dies before I complete this. She will love it." His voice was slowly carried away with the wind as he turned back to the canvas and continued.
"Harold....Stop. She wants to see you. Be there for her as the brother that you are." I walked into the room.
"I. Said. Don't Disturb. Me." His voice was low and dangerous. It was not him.
The old Harold was gone long back when he saw his little sister that he loved...dying.
"You cannot hide your pain in art for much longer, brother. Come see our sister." I mentioned as I walked towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He didn't stop. He simply just asked,
"Will seeing her make all of our pain go away?"
".....no." I said as I found myself at loss of words.
"Then...The best I can do is hide it. Tell our sister to wait. I'm far from done."
It's been years now. The painting is hanging upon the wall...it is....but there was neither a sister ,nor a brother ,who could admire it.
That is so beautifully done, now I really need to read a whole story about it 😭😭😭😭
OBSESSED
basil hallward visibility ❤️
Thanks for this comment, now this hits different :'')
A little something I wrote because of your comment, hope you like it =)
// The Portrait of Dorian Gray spoilers
My portrait will never capture his beauty, his essence, his perfection in every light and shadow. My brush touches the canvas, but it will never reflect his kindness, his innocence in this ruined world, his smile and every silence he chose instead of leaving his quiet voice float trough the air. My mind will never get to understand and reflect the shine in his eyes, his shy smile, his perfect skin reflecting the sun. I will simply never understand what is happening in his thoughts, I will never understand his feelings, I will never get to capture who he truly is.
I tried to leave what he was in my canvas and; even if I thought I will never could, It was my best piece, a masterpiece.
I captured everything I wanted, and I did to well, I guess
Every perfection in him dissapeared like a petal in a attum, London morning wind, flying from the flower in his hand
His eyes changed, his smile wasn't there anymore, his innocence replaced by cruelty in his heart.
Everything is my fault
This will always be my fault
I know it while the blood is running in my pale body, dripping in the carpet of a dark room.
And my last thought is what I already now, what I have been repeating over and over again in my mind.
He is not longer himself, and that is completely my fault.
@@moon.r.ise. HAGAJSOFOSJDJD OMG UR WRITING IS SO LOVELY
@@snailguy4139 Thank you sm
My breath grew shaky as did my legs. I couldn't handle the overwhelming feeling pouring through my veins like a drug. Only it wasn't a drug but sheer awe in what I created that flooded my senses.
"It's perfect." I whispered.
The way the sun hit the ruby red strokes of paint making it glow in a way I'd never seen before. Each stroke of the brush like thread in a tapestry, swimming together into a perfect current of art. This was my magnum opus, my reason for living. This is what I was born for.
I felt a lone tear fall down my cheek. Giggles inside from my throat which turned into a glorious laughing fit. I had done it.
"You were right, Mr. Blake." I said looking down to the floor where m teachers mangled body lay under the painting, "You have to push the limits when it comes to art. To do what no one is willing. Your advice worked. And your blood has made something to truly shake the artist world as we know it."
He struggled to speak. Pointless pleas gushing out of his mouth in words that weren't truly words. He truly was a pathetic sight. To think this mans blood could make something so breathtaking didn't make sense. But who was I to make any judgments toward a man who gave up his life in the name of art?
I crouched down staring into his lifeless eyes. His breath grew more ragged and started to slow. "You can sleep now, Mr. Blake. We did it."
And with that his blood, sweat, tear covered face loosened and he took one last breath. And just like that he went to visit the crows and hell hounds and whatever else was promised after death. And in the same way he was reborn out of our insatiable obsession to make the worlds most glorious piece of art.
I shivered reading this
They tell him he can’t do it, he’ll never do it, he doesn’t have the gall or the strength or the sanity. The sanity!
All of these things mean nothing.
They are less than nothing in the face of true brilliance.
His pen digs into the paper, blood dripping from the sharp tip of the feather, calling forth words and prophecies, perfection, perfection, perfection, no one can tell him his work is anything but.
He can’t remember the time, he can’t remember who put him here, who it was knocking at the cabin door, knocking or maybe, was it yelling his name? But it couldn’t have been his name because he is otherworldly, an artist, a god, a saint.
And this will be his masterpiece.
Perfection, she thinks, must be the standard. When she runs her fingers over the ivory keys of her piano, there exists nothing but the music, each perfectly tuned note and every perfectly timed beat, every single second of silence used to its fullest most fulfilling moment. From when the first note rings out to when the very last note falls, she does not exist; she is the space between the galaxies and stars and moons that are her music, the mere black emptiness that makes them shine.
Perfection is not to be strived for. Perfection must simply be. It would be her lowest bar, her easiest conquest. She must create music so undeniably flawless that there could be not a single soul in the hall that could deny her art.
She thinks, sometimes, of the way people described those that play music on instruments. How they compare their fingers to dancing and their faces to paintings, their eyes to fire and the sounds they make to art and angels; but music is no such beautiful thing, no such elegant and graceful thing. Of course, it must never appear so. Music must always be the elegant swan, gliding across the perfectly still water, leaving long ripples that spread in its trail like the creation of the universe in the hands of God Himself- but she knows better than any critic how the swan must paddle under the surface, must move its brittle webbed feet with desperation, for sheer survival, like living and like hell, for her journey across the pond to appear so perfect.
Perfection is simply the surface of her pond, the singular journey of a flawless streak across flawless water, appearing for all the word to see like an effortless moment of breathless beauty. Perfection is her will to live, her very reason to breathe. Her art is not simply music, or simply the piano- her craft is in perfection.
She holds her breath, her aching hands, her tired eyes, her straining spine, her creaking bones, and swallows, nothing but dryness on her tongue.
And again, she paddles.
Perfection. Many think it’s possible, it’s just beyond reach. But the lines necessary to cross to achieve-even slight-perfection, it’s unbearable. But she pushed through. She knew perfection was of course, the only answer. She had never known anything else.
I am putting in crown molding and this playlist is helping me survive this process
always there at the right times
Perfection is a glamorized description, nothing is perfect. I see flaws in the creations of others, I see flaws in mine. I see no beauty in a missed line, I see no comfort in a worse sign. I see flaws.
I watched my idea unfold,
The colors and lines oh, so bold.
Waiting for sleep but never still,
The gaps on the canvas I'm destined to fill.
Through heat and cold I continue on,
From day to night, and dusk to dawn.
My mind's empty, my vision a blur,
"Why am I here?" I concur.
Red paint crashes like a flood,
Looks familiar, almost blood.
Hurting on the inside, brokenhearted,
Yet I must finish what I started.
I can't tell you how well this fits my needs.
The artist stared at her masterpiece, the colors dripping down the walls of her mind. The brilliant hues burned her eyes but it was all worth it so see what she had created.
A temple to the gods that might never have existed. A place dedicated to something that humans might've made. Ah, well what it was supposed to be didn't matter.
Many temples are tombs, after all. And this one would be no exception.
She walked into the main room, running her fingers along the delicately carved archways. The twisting patterns swirled in ways she couldn't remember creating, not that it mattered.
All that mattered was that it was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever made.
Well, one of.
The artist stepped further into the room, letting her eyes trail over the paintings she'd painstakingly created on the ceiling. The depictions of angels were beautiful in her eyes, however horrifying and eldritch they might seem to others.
She knew what angels looked like, after all. She'd seen them.
It didn't matter what anyone else said. She knew what she'd seen.
She spun in a slow circle, taking in the millions of tiles decorating the inner sides of the archways. The tiny shapes glowed more brilliantly than gemstones lit aflame from within.
The tiny holes she'd carved out of the ceiling refracted light from the heavens, situated within the angel's palms. The tiny beams of light rested on specific tiles at specific times, revealing arcane patterns that even she didn't know the meaning of.
The artist sat down in the center of the room, staring back at where she'd come from. A hallway decorated with the vibrant hues of autumn greeted her, colored so realistically it was hard to believe that she hadn't just walked through a forest full of falling leaves.
To her left sat a hallway as bright as a summer sky. The almost-real waves lapping up from the walls made it easy to think that you would be swallowed by the waters.
To her right displayed a hallway full of bright whites and bale blues. The miniscule snowflakes made the winter wonderland scene feel all the more real.
Behind her was a hallway filled with all the shades of green that one could imagine. Fresh shoots of crops and the dazzling colors of wildflowers filled the spring scene with warmth.
The artist lay back on the floor, gazing up at the angels and the sunfire they held in their hands. The multitude of eyes and rings that she'd created stared back, glowing softly.
She blinked slowly, watching as the light dimmed until the angels held moonstreams in their palms. The tiny pinpricks of stars shown through the holes beautifully, focusing directly on the visible planets.
Everything was in alignment.
The artist laughed, mirth filling every fiber of her being.
The temple was ready for their arrival. Or rather, her ascendance.
After all, who better to create a temple to the angels than one of their own?
~~~
If you made it this far, thank you for reading! If you want more stories like this, you can check out my Wattpad.
(Yes, I know. Very cringe.)
www.wattpad.com/user/DeadlyGoldenAzalea
AAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
@@sublime1116 Thank you?
Why, this is absolutely beautiful. The picture and imagery you use, paints in my mind like the blossoming of a bundle of beautiful sunflowers. Oh so talented, you are.
Oh. My. I LOVE this so much. Your words- they’re incredibly entrancing, so captivating, so aureate &… just beyond beautiful. Ah, this is amazing!
This playlist has honestly the best vibe.
The poet drags her pen across the paper in rapid, jerking movements, leaving drops of ink and words alike in its wake. She mutters to herself as she writes, repeating the words of everyone who ever doubted her over and over again. Finally, she lifts her pen and stares at the page, slowly reading the words, once, twice, a third time, before releasing an anguished cry and crumpling the paper.
“Alice?” Her brother calls from the next room. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. Perfectly!” She shouts back as she pulls another paper from the stack by her right hand. And again she writes in her frantic hand. But the words don’t feel right, they’re unnatural, artificial, they taste like oil and sweat rather than honey and moonlight. “Nothing.” She murmurs, jamming her pen into the desk, breaking the tip and splattering ink across the paper and her hands. “You are nothing.” She crumples the paper and throws it into her wastebasket, knocking over her inkwell in the process, spilling even more of her writer’s blood. The door to her office creaks open and Alice stands abruptly and spins about to see her brother staring open-mouthed.
“What on earth!” He exclaims.
“Get out,” Alice says crossing the room to him to close the door again. “I’m working.” She shuts the door with a slam and locks it with a satisfying click.
“Go to bed, Alice. It's past midnight.” Her brother says through the wood.
“Impossible! If I go to sleep now I may never wake again. Goodnight.”
“Alice, this is insanity.”
“It would be insanity for me not to write, Silas. Without my poetry I am nothing. And I would rather be dead and adored than alive and nothing.”
“That is ridiculous, and you know it. You are destroying yourself.”
“Oh, to die for one's art. How romantic.” Alice responds as she retakes her seat and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper.
That was one of the most enjoyable things I’ve read
pov:
You have ten days left until you have to show your art to the gala.
But everything is gone.
Burned.
Better start again-
Day 1: Brush, purple for the sunset. Blue for the eyes. And yellow for the heart
Day 2: Brush Brush Brush. Dip in paint. Brush again. Blend. Blend. Blend.
Day 3: Brush. Close your eyes. Breath. Run a hand through your hair. Brush again. Growl. Make a mistake. Start again.
Day 4: Brush, pink for the sunset. green for the eyes. And red for the heart.
Day 5: Deep Breath. Start again. You have time.
Day 6:Brush, brown for the sunset. orange for the eyes. And white for the heart.
Day 7: Brush. Almost there. Frown. Spill water on your masterpiece. Cry. Yell. Scream. Break.
Day 8: Stop. Stay still.
Day 9: Begin again.
Day 10: Brush, white for the night. red for the eyes. And black for the broken heart.
Smile.
Everything inside my mind is floating in my own reality while ink drop out of my pen, right in the paper; leaving a permanent piece of my feelings, of my thoughts in it. That feelings I can't express when I'm talking, when my hands are shaking, my mind is blank, my eyes watering; my words trapped in my throat, between a heavy breath I can't let go. That words are now shaped in symmetrical, perfect words I hate, those I love at the same time, but simply can't express correctly; cause they are words created in my own reality and trapped there, screaming to get out as black blood.
English is not my first lenguage, please correct me if something is wrong ;)
Omg I write poetry and this is absolutely perfect. You're very good ❤️
@@valentinabeltrame5192 tysm
Words curl around the edges of the parchment, dancing and revelling in front of your eyes, basked in the heavy glow of a Hunter’s moon. Timber creaks in the ceiling above; a soft autumn breeze blowing swiftly through the open window. It rustles the sheets and flutters the paper, but still you stare, gaze unwavering, ink-stained fingers and tired eyes and a flurry of discourse running through your mind.
Gentle hands find their way to your waist through the sheets. His breath is soft in your ear, hair tickling the back of your neck.
“Go to sleep.”
“I’m not finished.” You say. His body is hot against your shivering skin, and for a moment it is almost enough to give in; to lay down and close your eyes and escape all the words, and the cold, and the exhausting madness of it all. But you cannot. Not yet.
“I’m not finished.” You say again. He chuckles, a sleepy, half-awake mumble of a laugh.
“And what will the Queen say when she finds one of her Ladies in Waiting, sleeping on a bale of hay in the stables well before noon?”
Another stroke of your quill sends a thousand words tumbling onto the page. “I prefer not to think about what your mother will say. Besides, it’s not going to happen.”
“You’re up in two hours. Not counting the time it takes for you to climb out of my window, and down onto the…”
“Shh.” You reach around to bury your hand into his curls. For a while, there is silence; just two bodies, breathing in time, the scratch of a quill on paper, the whispers of a breeze in the cold night.
And then,
“It’s done.” You breathe in deeply, for the first time that night. It’s done. Countless days and sleepless nights; ink and the moon and his breath against your neck and the blurriness of reality, and it’s done.
The arms around your waist are no longer there. You fold the paper, carefully, sealing it with wax, and return it to it’s place under the Prince’s bed. He is fast asleep, face illuminated by the moonlight, and as you lay down, sinking deep into the eiderdown, at last- your mind is quiet.
(I know this is sort of meant to be painting, but I see poets as artists too! can you tell how much i just wanna be in a medieval castle writing poetry under the moonlight, huh. preferable with an attractive guy, but you know, can't have everything.) :0
this was so so good please write a book!!!
@@st_flores7755 ah thank you!!🥰🥰
This is amazing. You should write a story based on this
oh i’m so ready for this
Title: Never Secret
(English is not my first language, I’m still trying to improve my writing and I understand it can be frustrating reading this but i would appreciate it if you can leave me some feedback. feel free to correct my grammatical errors)
I am currently trying to find my motivation for my unfinished art in the library. The rain outside is pouring like crazy. Raindrops hitting the window glass as I sketch on the paper. I fight the urge to yawn and get up to fill up my tumbler with water. The library prepared a water dispenser near the librarian office.
I gulp down the water. My eyes wandering around the fiction section. My feet unknowingly walk to the section and I start to pick read the synopsis of the books. A hardcover book caught my attention. Never, Secret. The title gives me the hint of someone’s pain and I can weirdly relate to it.
I return to my seat and start reading it. I promised myself to only read the book for fifteen minutes and then I will focus on my unfinished art again.
Even the flowers that bloomed in my heart,
They wither silently.
The wind that gently blew in my heart,
It somehow has turned cold.
I am still here waiting for you, my love.
Something stings in my heart but I could not explain it with words. The poem, the story and the protagonist in this book reminds me of myself.
Without any warning, there are some small white orbs orbiting around me. I gasps softly. Slowly, the orbs are getting bigger and brighter. I shield my eyes using my hand, everything around me turns white. I wait for my eyes to adjust with my surroundings.
I am not in the library anymore. I am puzzled. I am in the forest. I can hear the birds chirping followed by the crickets sounds. I look down and noticed that I am wearing the complete opposite of what I was wearing at the library. A dress. A flowy light blue dress. A giggle escape from my lips. The dress is perfect for dancing so I twirl for a few times.
“My love. There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
I froze. I remind myself that this is a dream. No one can hurt me. I turn around and see a familiar face. My best friend and the man I am in love with, but I cannot risk to confess because I am too afraid that he will leave me and I might ruin our friendship.
“What’s wrong? You look pale as if you see a ghost”
“Han?”
“Yes, that’s me. I cooked us some dinner. Come on”
He reach for my hands and interlocking our fingers together. I can feel his warmth. I never hold hands with Han before and I have to remind myself that this is just a dream.
After the dinner, Han take me to the hillside to spend time together. I know this is not my reality so I gather my courage and ask him for a dance under the moonlight.
“Of course, my love. Anything for you but bear in mind that I am not a good dancer as you already know”
I grin and rest my right hand on his shoulder whilst his, grabbing my waist and pulling me closer. We can clearly hear our heart beats along with the nonexistent music.
His eyes are full of tiny stars sparkling as he look down at me with a beautiful smile of his. He leans in closer until we are only few inches away.
“I love you”
He whispered before he kiss me passionately, I was taken aback but I return the kiss. Neither of us want to pull back.
“Hey, wake up! Why are you sleeping in the library?”
Han’s voice echoing in my ears. I rub my eyes lazily as I see him, looking at me worriedly. I remember the dream I had and shake my head.
“I’m fine~ I must’ve have fell asleep. Let’s go, I need to freshen myself”
“Geez, you’re weird. Oh? why do these people in the book look like us?”
“What are you talking about?”
I stare at the paintings at the very back of the book. My eyes widened. There he was the man that resembles Han and he was holding hands with his wife that resembles me. Unlike mine, their story ended with a happy ending.
at least we loved each other in the past but oh, how i wish we can love each other at this moment too
finally, i found my inspiration for my art.
WOAH GDAM
not me waiting for the wattpad writers to arrive so I can start making up scenarios in my head
Paint me a compositional masterpiece on my heart, o muse, that I may capture the effervescent beauty of this natural world.
love your playlists
Darling... this is not a POV, this is my life. The playlist is terrific, thank you for sharing!
I added this to my playlist before clicking on it, your titles are amazing!
Both souls where in pain along they witnessed his soul disappearing in thin air and setting a smell of dead, and love.
They both considered him as father, even though he was never able to be one by blood.
His soul was vanishing, but not the spirit, the traces of light and his testimony, his story, a treasure only the reader will be able to know.
His weird way of living will be always remembered, the way he changed from a inmate to a a dove of hope.
omg thank u so much for this beautiful playlist, and im so excited cause u literally described me in the title. i´m working on my second and third book, so i´m so happy that u made this beautiful masterpiece so i can write while listening :)
This has been added to my playlist Olivia THANK YOU FOR THIS
Ahhhh this is so beautiful !! Ty sm keep it up😊
This channel is just art, so fantastic 💖
👌
I'm an art historian listening to this as i compose my thesis but -- all these fabulous narrative comments and poems and passages are just filling me with creative dark joy
this is splendid < 3 lovely work
I'm in law school and this is literally the playlist I listen to every time I need to grind out a piece of writing at the last minute. I feel like I'm an insane genius frantically scribbling my ephemeral thoughts down before they disappear into the ether as I listen to this and it's probably the best motivational music for pumping out ~500-1000 words in 30 minutes.
You're there. Now go. And when you tire, carry on. Don't you stop.
I don't think there's anything more relatable than the title. And I love the music choice. Totally adore the fact that you made this video :))
You literally summon people from all over the world, of all interests and endeavours, with your well-crafted playlists.
It's actually very relaxing and helps studying a lot without distraction, thanks a lot
I'm writing and desperately trying to finish a story right now.
I needed this!!!
I swear yesterday I was watching Black swan and watching a lot of videos about the 'obsessed artist' trope, and now you post this! Great timing!
i love this playlist with a burning passion.
This came so in time, just two days ago i watched black swan ^^
This is just pure art
Words can't express how much I love your playlists
I was drawing while listening to this and I think that it made me more productive than usual
Omg this is so beautiful
your playlist’s>
Love you so much Olivia
Have a great day ahead❤️❤️
THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST PLAYLISTS OUT HERE. COULDN'T HAVE COME AT A BETTER TIME. YOU DESERVE THE WORLD. i'm crying.
It's great. Please continue to take care of us. love you!
Your music taste is immaculate and like no other
the beginning is spectacular
Love this playlist!!
I slowly make my Magnum Opus and feel exactly the same feeling as the music portrays
Gonna use this to finish my art practical the day before it's due
Do we posses art or does it possess us? I’ve been pondering the thought for a while now. What pushes us to create if there are billions of other things that give us as much satisfaction in a blink of an eye. How do we find pleasure in pushing ourselves closer to the brink of insanity with every piece, constantly striving for perfection as it gets further from grasp. There’s something deep within the chaos of pain and raw emotions, a sort of spark that burns bright with passion, radiating up your spine like a thousand lightening bolts. It’s as if a Devine deity has possessed your body, or rather a part of yourself that you seldom knew existed. Art, on the surface looks pretty and picturesque, but concealed underneath the conceiving mask is tragedy and ugliness. Beauty is a contradiction to itself. Everything beautiful is ugly, and everything we call beautiful we quiver before it.
1st song started and i've never felt this powerful before
This music makes me so uneasy and heartbroken somehow 😭😨
I've never felt so called out
Aaaawn you did the playlist about the artist inspired to complete masterpiece, i remember asking you, so sweet, thanks a lot from Brazil. S2
yes! thank u sm
hello :) it's my first time listening to one of your playlists, i have to say it is very welcoming and very lovely.
the music fits so well with the title and art too! i hope you're having a great day and just wanted to drop by to say hello i hope everyone is doing amazing.
Not me stalking you on Spotify on what songs you’ve been listening
The fact that my b-day is on 25 October, makes me feel special
OLIVIA, WE LOVE YOU!
I can't wait for the christmas playlist y'all
i just blasted my way through seven pages of annotations, thanks olivia
POV:
It was that utter feeling of betrayal that made you realize how deep you had fallen for his tricks. Even through all of his lies, and tricks of condescending romance. You tried to hide below what you felt all along, how his perfect
Smile was to perfect, how his eyes shined to bright, how his persona was perfect to perfect.
Perfect person, body, face, smile, eyes, teeth, voice, even his walk was perfect.
I just never realized how perfect he was in hiding his dead body, it’s almost as if it’s simple repetition that his mind has put together as he grunts again and again trying to dig the hole deeper.
He’s dirty, on every aspect of his body, but his face is spotless. Who would have known he was perfect as this too.
Is this a favorite pastime or is this simply a one time thing.
My hands struggle rubbing against the rope trying to create some sort of friction to somehow make the rope loose. But if anything its making it tighter. I feel my tears run down my face and my saliva escape the side of my mouth against his navy blue handkerchief.
Papers all around the place, the writer is still working on the table, the ideas flow faster than their hand as the ink runs across the manuscript.The work of an entire life and the end is close but not near enough to grasp just yet, they start getting frustrated but a sudden rush of creativity hits again. Finally and as the sun starts to come out again, the writer places the last dot to the masterpiece, this one work that will end their career.
Joy fills the room but soon sadness strikes as they realize , they have done it all. The feeling that the have reached the top, and they will never be able to do anything better than what they just finished. So the writer sits on the floor of their studio and looks around everything is a mess and in the caos there is their art. And they let their life fade as they stab themself with that pen.
wtf i love this
iam still waiting i'v been waiting for 13 hours dang
PREAAACH😭✨
forever in love with this title
A legacy...
What is a legacy?
Trying to grapple the colors of a flag.
Trying to recreate a symbol.
What is a symbol?
Can it be created?
Who creates it?
Can it be sold?
Money makes the world go round.
Try to find your place in the world's economy.
Because nobody sings on empty.
What is a symbol worth to you?
How much will you pay to show the world that you're unafraid of it's judgment?
A design on a bottle cap.
A recreation of a flag that stands for something greater then yourself.
The hammer that pounds it flat also pounds inside the artists mind.
Your art is your legacy.
How much is your legacy worth?
A business is an organism that feeds on creativity.
When art and business are one,
Who is the consumer and who is the producer?
Milton desperately flung paint at the canvas; he was going to die soon, and he didn’t know why. But before he left this earth, he had to finish his masterpiece. It had to be perfect. People had to know. You know, Milton was respected once. He painted everything he was able to, creating beautiful works that no human should have the right to make. But that was before he lost his sanity.
Misery themself had come to torture the poor artist. They whispered in his ear, taking away everyone he loved. People needed to know what “Misha” really was. But Misery being Misery, just couldn’t let that happen. And so Milton passed away, but not before stowing away his work for someone, anyone to find someday.
Best classical playlist ever
The art is coloured glass sculpted by high power water jet, then formed into a mosaic that invites the curiosity of the mind. The flowing blues and greens could be so many things, perhaps like a fading dream it is what you want it to be.
FINALLY. WHERE HAVE THIS PLAYLIST BEEN IN MY LIFE
He sat at his desk for hours, he sighed and grabbed a wine glass and poured himself a glass of blueberry wine.
"something is.. missing, but I don't know what!"
The artist looked down at his desk, it's smudged with paint stains and chipping wood. he looks deep into the black void that was his half filled wine glass, he took a sip and set it back down. The artist looked outside and saw it was raining, he wasn't planing leaving his house anyways.
"It's lacking spark, ugh... this will never do well at the museum"
the artist said looking at his painting. His painting was a photo of a cafe front, there wasn't any color at all it was just all black and white.
Then it hit him, he looked into his now cold black roast coffee and carefully dipped a clean brush into the cup curiously and started filling in the blanks on his canvas. light brown stains filled the painting with livelihood, the artist stood back and looked at his canvas one more time.
"Yes, yes! this was it! my spark was sitting in front of me this entire time! but of course!" the artist said nodding gently.
The artist stood back proud of his work. he could finally call this masterpiece
"finished"
(Note: I'm bad at writing)
This is quite accurate, actually.
omg i haven't felt so called out this much
this will give me drawing motivation
it's strange, the insatiable desire we have to create. we paint and write and sketch till the world runs out of colors and we run out of energy. our tragedy is this: our hearts may hold the universe, but a canvas cannot.
this is giving me Van Gogh vibes and i love it ♡♡