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sailorgoth · 1 year

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Querida Anne Rice...

Há alguns anos eu estava em uma festa que não queria estar, mas precisava, tinha um livro muito bobinho comigo, intitulado "Carta de Amor aos Mortos", lembro de tê-lo lido inteiramente durante as quatro horas que precisei ficar na festa.

Não lembro o nome da personagem principal, porque sou ruim em guardar nomes com os quais não tenho muito contato, mas enfim, essa moça tinha a missão de escrever a carta para um ídolo que já havia falecido.

Gostaria de que alguma forma você ainda estivesse viva para que pudéssemos nos conhecer pessoalmente, sei que deve ter ouvido inúmeros elogios durante a vida, mas eu queria tecer o meu em meio a um abraço caloroso e sabe, em minha condição em nunca gostei de abraçar as pessoas, mas queria abraçá-la.

A conheço há anos, mas acho que apenas na maturidade de minha vida adulta é que fui capaz de compreender a beleza de sua obra. Anne Rice, você era uma artista! Já li muitas coisas na minha vida, já estudei literatura na faculdade, aprendi a fazer críticas literárias, análises nos mais diferentes nuances, li tantas coisas... mas nada, absolutamente nada, nenhuma obra mesmo, me toca como as suas. Bom, para ser sincera apenas um único livro me tocou, mas de verdade, chegou perto, mas não fez o que tu me fizeste.

Sinto o que os personagens que eu simpatico e me identifico sentem. Em "Chore para o Céu" sofro e sorrio com Tonio como se todos os sentimentos fossem genuinamente meus, me nego a crer que ele, Guido, Alessandro, Domenico, Paolo, Christina... e todos os demais personagens nunca existiram.

A mesma coisa me acontece com as crônicas, me pego por vezes pensando "Será mesmo que lá na França não há um castelo habitado por esses vampiros?". Você dá vida aos seus personagens de maneira tão palpável. Obviamente também tenho críticas para a senhorita, coisas que me irritam e me estressam em suas histórias, mas deixemos o mal de lado, foquemos no bem e tão somente nele.

Você me fez entender o significado de "tomar as dores de outra pessoa", sempre fui empática, mas isso? Anne Rice... isso? Meu Deus, isso é loucura! Nunca pensei que pudesse existir tamanho sentimento, você é uma artista e não canso de repetir, não canso de dizer isso com os olhos cheios de lágrimas, me sinto boba, mas é isso, você conseguiu! Você me faz chorar, rir, me desesperar imensamente... Li um trecho onde Tonio estava triste e irritado, senti-me igualmente assim e as palavras seguintes me vinham com esse peso, então Tonio cantou, Cafarelli aplaudiu, ele sentiu-se imensamente feliz e em paz, na mais pura e bela paz e eu também.

Eu acho que o maior sonho de todo escritor é que seus leitores se sintam exatamente como você faz com que eu me sinta. Não posso falar pelos outros, Anne, não sei deles, sei de mim e de meus sentimentos e você me faz duvidar da ficcionalidade da sua obra, você veio com um dom maravilhoso e o desenvolveu da melhor maneira possível e beirou a perfeição. Você me tem sido uma professora maravilhosa, incrível, incrível mesmo. Escrevo esse texto como se você o fosse receber, mas espero que minhas palavras cheguem até você como pétalas perfumadas de flores, lindas pétalas da sua flor favorita e que elas brilhem e façam feliz, que você saiba que deixou um legado tão bonito, que saiba sempre que nessa vida você foi Anne Rice e você foi uma artista primorosa. Polêmica, controversa, que me entristece com algumas coisas nos seus livros, mas você foi incrivelmente maravilhosa. Afinal, a arte também é feia, a arte também desagrada. Minhas críticas continuam e você bem sabe disso, mas meus elogios, são eles que quero que receba, aonde quer que esteja.

Obrigada de verdade, desde o ano passado tudo tem sido tão difícil, tão triste, mas você, com as palavras que escreveu me tem causado tantas emoções, me sinto viva! Anseio pelo dia que viverei algo muito parecido com o que me entrega em seus livros, com o dia que sentirei essa onda frenética e violenta de emoções por algo palpável, anseio pelo dia que escreverei tão bem como você.

Obrigada Anne, obrigada de verdade, você foi incrível e eu a amo por isso, de verdade, assim como os seus personagens, tão cheios de vida própria e tridimensional, tão cheios de amor em seus vocabulários rústicos, eu a amo e sou grata, você foi incrível.

#anne rice #love letters to the dead #cry to heaven #chore para o céu #carta de amor aos mortos #carta de agradecimento a anne rice #arte #literatura #você foi uma artista maravilhosa #a arte das palavras

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fallofastar · 2 years

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When Natalie gave Hannah the Tulip painting because is her favorite flower and represent their feelings for each other... that's love. That's the highest standard of all.

#love letters to the dead

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lilyvrooom · 2 years

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love letters to the dead aesthetic

pine trees in forests

house parties in the woods

wearing your boyfriends denim jackets

car rides in golden hour

mustard coloured kombis

blasting your music as a coping mechanism

sneaking out to go get pissed at parties

drinking in parks when no one is there

wagging school

plaide skirts with knitted jumpers

screaming under water

childhood memory boxes

writing in your diary every night

the smell of scented soap and deodorant

#book lover #books #ava dellaria #love letters to the dead #aesthetic #aesthetics

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oallisonandrade · 8 years

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"Todos nós queremos ser alguém, mas temos medo de descobrir que não somos tão bons quanto todo mundo imagina que somos."

#cartas de amor aos mortos #love letters to the dead

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litandlifequotes · 2 months

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The ghosts in the house are ours, and I just want to be with them.

Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira

#ava dellaira #love letters to the dead #book #book quote #quote #words #reading

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tntky · 2 years

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Dernière lettre à mon ame-soeur.

Comme le dit si bien Coldplay “all i can think about is YOU.” et sa tombe bien parce que je viens de finir l’épisode finale de cette série. J’ai mal digéré la fin de mon personnage préférée bien qu’elle soit décrite comme une psychopathe complétement folle. Je devinais avec facilité ses prochains fait et gestes comme si je m’y prenais moi-même. Est-ce une mauvaise chose ? en effet.

De se retrouver autant dans un personnage décrit comme le méchant de l’histoire, ça n’a rien de très glorieux. Tout le monde veut ressembler au superhéros, en général. Mais moi, je m’identifie au méchant de l’histoire… autant pour son côté obsessif et manipulateur que pour son coté d’espérer de commettre l’irréparable afin d’en venir à ses fins … Et si je me remets à écrire ce soir après un bon moment c’est parce que je me sens seule encore une fois. Je suis seule. Une nuit de plus à me retrouver cloitrer chez moi à me faire à l’idée de projets qui ne sont pas les miens. A accepter les imprévus sans broncher parce que c’est ce que les adultes doivent être capable de faire. Cette soirée n’est pas celle que j’avais planifiée et j’ai du mal à cacher ma déception. Mais je trouve que je m’en sors très bien, malgré le fait que tout ne se passe pas comme prévu. La psychopathe en moi n’en revient pas. C’est rare et agaçant mais quand si ça gêne c’est qu’il y a du changement qui se passe et ça et c’est bon signe, non ?

J’ai mis de l’ordre dans mes archives de mon ancien téléphone. J’ai conservé deux trois pépites de mes conneries du passé afin de retomber dessus des années plus tard et d’en rire, afin de toujours avoir une trace de celle que j'étais et que je ne suis plus.

Quand je me regarde dans le miroir, j’ai du mal à me reconnaitre. Il y a longtemps que j’ai arrêté de fantasmer sur ce qui aurait pu être et que j’ai rayé de ma mémoire toute illusions d’une moi qui aurait été plus heureuse dans un autre contexte. Je garde en mémoires de nuits d’étés inoubliables mais ce ne sont que des souvenirs. Je ne peux pas les modifier ou les revivre. Et à vrai dire je ne contrôle rien du tout. Ça me fait comme un pincement au cœur a chaque jour qui rajoute comme une couche de poussière a ses précieux moment du passé. Dans un coin de ma tête je revois ton visage et j’espère que tu es toujours en vie. 37 ans ce n’est rien, tu mérites beaucoup plus que ce délai que tu t’es auto infligée. Je veux te savoir heureux. Je veux te savoir en sécurité et aimé. Et si je croyais encore en Dieu je priais pour qu’il exauce tout ceci.

Même si nous deux ça n’a pas marché, et que ça ne marchera plus, je suis contente que nos chemins se soient croisés à un moment donné quelque part dans ce vaste univers, que mon âme a pu croiser la tienne. Il ne se passe pas un jour sans que tu me traverses l’esprit …

Mais un jour ça ira mieux. Un jour je m’y ferais. Et je me dois de poursuivre le chemin que j’ai choisi d’entreprendre. Je sais que moi aussi je le mérite ce bonheur que je te souhaite. Je mérite d’être heureuse et de suivre mon intuition même quand celle-ci me fait prendre des chemins pas très rassurants. Il s’agit de moi alors je dois me faire confiance, et savoir me pardonner si je me trompe.

Je sais que tu ne peux pas me lire mais je sais que tu aurais pu me comprendre. Je sais aussi que je dois apprendre à m'en foutre de tout ça et te laisser prendre ton envol. Je sais que tu ne m’en as jamais voulu de partir loin de toi. Dans ce cas j’ouvre la cage de mon cœur et je décide de te laisser retrouver ta liberté. Je vais guérir, tout ira bien pour toi comme pour moi.

Un jour viendra où je n’aurais plus jamais peur d’aimer ou de défendre les idées qui se projette dans ma tête. J’aurais de la conviction pour mes propos. Et je sais que d’une certaine façon tu seras toujours près de moi à me fournir cette force nécessaire qu’il me manque à porter mes couilles et me défendre toute seule, toi qui me l’as si bien appris.

Et même quand je m’identifiais au méchant de l’histoire, toi tu ne m’as jamais faite me sentir comme tel. Je n’étais que moi-même à tes yeux et c’était suffisant. Après tout ça, il ne me reste qu’a te dire merci et adieu mon âme-sœur.

#ame soeur #adieux #love letters to the dead

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4s1na · 2 years

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"my darling, you will never be unloved by me you are too well tangled in my soul"

— Atticus

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positivelyadhd · 2 years

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i cannot stress enough how much of an impact changing the way you talk to yourself can have on your mental health. swapping out self deprecating jokes and changing unhealthy sentiments like "i hate myself" and "i want to die" to kinder, more forgiving ones like "i need a break" and "i'm trying" can make such a difference to how you view yourself. the things we say to ourselves become a part of our lives and so we deserve to me kinder to ourselves in our heads.

#my brain is a little fried so i'll probably rewrite this at some point but i hope this gets across my point?#the way its so normal at the moment to say things i wish was dead is honestly concerning #it's not healthy to think like that!!#self talk #positivity #love letters to you

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lucidpeech · 2 months

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dear sister must die

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #the dark urge #orin the red #the dead three #fanart #bg3 bhaalspawn #i really love these two's relationship in like a sad messed up way yknow #like from his letter #durge doens't really antagonizes orin that much and even recognize her talent and eye for beauty #but probably thinks of her as bratty and annoying #since it is confirmed ingame that durge does have a childhood #i wonder if they were introduced to each other at a young age #peechy art : bg3

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ravengards-rogue · 1 month

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i thought of you so often.

arthur morgan x reader.

✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.

✧ wc : 2.4k (???)

✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.

✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.

He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.

You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.

On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.

You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.

It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.

It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.

Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.

Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.

Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.

Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.

You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.

(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.

"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)

But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.

You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.

You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.

And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.

A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.

The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.

So you're thinking on it.

The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.

Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.

You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.

"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.

Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.

The first few pages are nothing special.

A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.

You really love this man helplessly.

You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.

It feels like ages ago now.

You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.

There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.

It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.

Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.

You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.

She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.

Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.

You can't tear your eyes away.

Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.

Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.

Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.

You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.

I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.

She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.

One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.

After Arthur had been kidnapped.

I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one. Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was. Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow. Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.

Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.

A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.

The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.

Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.

You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.

You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.

Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.

Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.

My darling girl My muse The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.

Damn that man.

When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.

Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.

In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.

"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"

You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.

Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.

"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"

You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.

"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"

His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.

"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."

You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.

"Found your journal. The one about me,"

He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.

"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"

You shake your head.

"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"

He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."

You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.

"I love you, Arthur."

"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"

"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"

"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."

"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"

Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#zero.writes #rogues love letters #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fluff #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fluff #red dead redemption x reader #this is so lovesick and silly i feel so miserable #I AM A JOHN GIRL. BUT. well that deadbeat father and bastard isnt gonna write you love letters like arthur im afraid

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