♥Paper Doll Hearts

 I'm Rosie, doomed to be eternally lost in
an endlessness of weathered words,
wide eyed dreams, berry stained lips,
old libraries, salty tears, colourful bruises, forgotten histories, hearts on sleeves, college stresses, young love, old Hollywood, London nights, endless rains, child-like allergies, summer freckles, daring hopes, winter butterflies and eternal whimsey......
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05
25
I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young. They’re still princesses. All of us. -A Little Princess

I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young. They’re still princesses. All of us.

-A Little Princess

05
24
My heart has been escaping to here a lot lately; but honestly, can you blame me? 

My heart has been escaping to here a lot lately; but honestly, can you blame me? 

05
22
I fell in love with this beautiful Steinway today…

I fell in love with this beautiful Steinway today…

05
22

Anonymous asked - "❤ You are absolutely magical, enchanting and adorable. Such an inspiration. I wonder what kind of music do you listen to ❤"

Hello Lovely Dove, 

How very kind and darling of you to send such dear words my way. My heart always takes little leaps when I read such sweetness. 

I have decided to turn your question into a longer text post, is that alright dear? I couldn’t help myself for I love that there seems to be the right kind of music for my every quirk and eclecticism. Life becomes a story, with soundtracks for each moment of the day:

Mornings, I’ll wake to celtic music and harp strings pattering like golden raindrops against my wall of sleep. Before dawn’s fog lifts, Morrissey will croon softly and sadly in my ear with his lilting bravado. En route to class, you may find me twirling to Francoise Hardy or putting on a brave smile to Stevens’ “Wild World.” 

Classes will have me fervently taking notes on my laptop until I notice my fingers on the computer keyboard seem to be drumming out a hook from some contemporary pop band with a clever name. Perhaps I’ve missed lunch that day in favour of scribbling poetry or painting in the shade, a slightly dissonant Fiona Apple tune hovers in the background. Later, progress on my twenty-paged essay could be improved were a couple of friends not over with Beatles vinyl’s - but moments like these are priceless. 

Should time allow, I might tug my schoolgirl ribbons to send down a waterfall of hair, rippling in the breeze on a drive with mates along the coast, the radio blaring a Zeppelin classic or “Crazy” by Aerosmith. We’ll watch the sunset in silence as a piece from The Carpenters tells us how lovely we are (and we nearly believe it).

 As the sun melts into the night, I can be found blathering on the faculty club terrace about historical discoveries, enjoying an old Sinatra record and a glass of cider with a professor friend. Back in my room as sleep draws near, any number of musical threads may follow me onto pastel sheets, Vivaldi? yes please. 

05
21
She held her crystal heart between fragile hands, cutting her palms on the shards of glass they’d left her. Lifting her eyes towards the wall of darkness ahead, she outstretched her palms, her heart illuminating the falling stars in her midst. She watched as the glow cast heirloom shadows through lace eyelets upon the sky. One foot then the other, she’d find her moon eventually. 

She held her crystal heart between fragile hands, cutting her palms on the shards of glass they’d left her. Lifting her eyes towards the wall of darkness ahead, she outstretched her palms, her heart illuminating the falling stars in her midst. She watched as the glow cast heirloom shadows through lace eyelets upon the sky. One foot then the other, she’d find her moon eventually. 

05
20
Gene Tierney As A Child

Gene Tierney As A Child

05
18
Today, I composed a perfume that captures the scent of a rose garden library: wild roses, cherry wood shelves, sandalwood desks, shady pines sweeping across the entrance and sweet notes of the spring breeze billowing past the silken curtains draping the large gable windows.

Today, I composed a perfume that captures the scent of a rose garden library: wild roses, cherry wood shelves, sandalwood desks, shady pines sweeping across the entrance and sweet notes of the spring breeze billowing past the silken curtains draping the large gable windows.

05
18
O flower of the branch, O bird among the leaves,O silver fish that my two hands have takenOut of the running stream, O morning starTrembling in the blue heavens like a white fawnUpon the misty border of the wood,Bend lower, that I may cover you with my hair,For we will gaze upon this world no longer. Excerpt from: The Shadowy Waters by W.B. Yeats

O flower of the branch, O bird among the leaves,
O silver fish that my two hands have taken
Out of the running stream, O morning star
Trembling in the blue heavens like a white fawn
Upon the misty border of the wood,
Bend lower, that I may cover you with my hair,
For we will gaze upon this world no longer.


Excerpt from: The Shadowy Waters by W.B. Yeats

05
17
“It wasn’t that she hadn’t painted in a while, she had. What she hadn’t done is complete a painting. Unfinished canvases lined the walls and floors of the space. Haunting uncolored eyes gazed out of some, unfinished hands reached from others. Every canvas sullen in its of incompletion yet magnetic in its state of being. Often times, they’d ask her what she was waiting for, why she didn’t fill the ivory spaces with paint. Once when asked, she gestured to a painting hung on the inside of a wardrobe door saying, “ask her” but alas, the painted waif hadn’t any ears…”

“It wasn’t that she hadn’t painted in a while, she had. What she hadn’t done is complete a painting. Unfinished canvases lined the walls and floors of the space. Haunting uncolored eyes gazed out of some, unfinished hands reached from others. Every canvas sullen in its of incompletion yet magnetic in its state of being. Often times, they’d ask her what she was waiting for, why she didn’t fill the ivory spaces with paint. Once when asked, she gestured to a painting hung on the inside of a wardrobe door saying, “ask her” but alas, the painted waif hadn’t any ears…”

05
15
Heidi

Heidi