Mrs. Baker is so underrated she’s honestly probably one of my favorite characters. you really see her change from the past episodes to the present episodes. she’s so happy and she’s glowing but after her daughter dies not only her personality but her appearance goes to shit. she’s been through quite possibly the worst thing any parent could ever go through; finding your own son or daughter dead after they killed themselves. now all she’s gonna be thinking the rest of her life is what did i do wrong. hannah’s parents honestly deserved so much more then they got.
Here’s to all the peopl who cried over Clays tape over the book.
Here’s to all the people who knew about what happened at the party before the shpw even mentioned it.
Here’s to all the people who gave dirty looks to Justin and Jessica and Bryce and Tyler the second they appeared on screen.
Here’s to all the people who spent hours of binging anticipating Clay’s tape and crying before it even started.
Here’s to all the people who hated Mr. Porter before the last episode.
Here’s to all the people who knew exactly what they were getting themselves into watching the Netflix series.
I remember our first conversation and how you said that I suffer because of how sensitive I am to the world. Frail heart with a red smile, we enjoy poetry because it’s like breathing. So breathe with me and I’ll breathe with you. Life happens to us and we’ll change. We’re not perfect and that’s okay. I’m selfish and hollow too. Living in your 20s with so much on your mind. I think it’s normal to feel like a bad friend or a bad lover. We’ll fix it someday, won’t we? There is an ocean within your tears, your soul is bright molten lava spewing from your pain. People don’t understand us, they don’t think like us. Have you heard about the paradox of choice? There is an infinite amount of things to do– it ultimately leads back to who you truly want to be. Time doesn’t stop for anyone, it passes us by like clouds during a normal day. Maybe that’s why it’s called the past. You learn to love people, but they never learn to love you. Well… at least not how you’d want them to. Maybe you want guys to see past the pretty face and nice body. Maybe you pray because you’re scared and faith gives you a solid reason to believe again. So breathe with me and I’ll breathe with you. I pick up just to hear you cry– I don’t enjoy it. Humans are strange, we built a society that tells us you are more if you have more and you ain’t shit if you ain’t got shit. We sold our souls a long time ago. Our identities crushed by the pressures of our peers and our parents. I’m sick and tired of people telling me how to live my life. What is the value of a dollar if your passion is dead? What is the point of freedom if your mind is a slave to material things? We’re out of touch with reality. We have forgotten about Mother Nature. The trees and the bees are upset with us. Flawed creatures searching for a future amongst dollar signs. I guess that is kinda morbid. Time is running out and the choices we’ll make today– they affect tomorrow in ways that we can’t see. You’re sensitive to words. Always have been, always will be. So I’ll leave you with another I love you.
And then… at last, at last, he kissed her with real passion. Skin on skin, mouth on mouth. To forget death and tragedy and loss. She was his wife and it was her duty and her privilege to transform him with her devotion and her love.
— Crimson Peak (book)
People who watched 13 reasons without reading the book
Please don’t pretend that you are a big fan when you didn’t know about the book before watching it on netflix. Stop saying that you actually care for suicide when you always say that the weak or the cowards do it. Stop saying that Hannah was an idiot for killing herself. Stop saying Justin Foley is a good person. Stop.
Just please stop.
A lot of us who read the book and love the book did it years ago and when we tried to make you read it you all said it was bullshit.
So please stop saying that is just the best.
I heard a poet say the other day about how easy it was to write with a mask on, to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, if I hide the words good enough and toss away the keys to this lock, could you still find yourself if it’s so deep inside of my flaws? You love it when people write about you, especially if I’m doing the writing it seems. I don’t write about you much, so here I am. One last poem. And I give your eyes a solid peek with every letter, a silent whisper that says nothing, but if you pay attention to my lips it mouths an I love you each and every time when you catch me staring at you and I look away. I wonder when I see you staring, do you do the same when I turn away my head? I love to write, but you’ll wonder if it’s about you, you, you, you, you or her, her, her, her, her or her. It’s about you. This is about you. You know who you are. In the first conversation we ever had, you asked if my favorite color was red before even getting into my head. And those eyes that peer, that leer, that steer straight into mine, we haven’t met, we have met, we haven’t loved, we have loved, we haven’t fallen, we have fallen, we haven’t fucked, we have fucked, we haven’t broken into, we have broken into, we haven’t written, we have written, we haven’t been, we have been, we haven’t talked, we have talked, we speak for five minutes and I feel like I’ve known you for several lifetimes and attention is such a trickling thing as it falls from my eyes and into yours– we haven’t been anything before these five minutes, but I’ve made love to your every way before we knew, before you knew, before I knew, we were kinda fucked. We made sure to not get too close, we made sure that it never happened, it stays as it stays, it says as it says, and one day, we’ll never be. She says I could never date a writer. And as ironic as it is, we’re both writers, so as enamored and as pulled to one another as we are, we’ll think about it when the sun decides to go for another eternal nap, and when the moon finally decides to give those love letters back with different people holding each cloud up, with separate lovers holding us, we’ll think about it until it hurts. And we’ll do it for the sake of falling in love, the art of the what if’s while you’re young and stupid, it goes like this. You are something that casts more deadly spells than a dark lord’s wand, that bends more trees than the wind during hurricane season, that breaks more often than a sidewalk during the heat of summer love, that admires more deeply than artists comparing themselves to Van Gogh, that swells more quickly than a mosquito bite because you forgot bug spray although it never works because they too find you irresistible from blood type to skin, that itches worse than eating something you’re allergic too, it’s often our favorite foods too, that stretches more than the horizon when the sun asks the moon to come out and play always, always, slow dance to that one song from now on, that sings as beautiful as the Mona Lisa when we try to figure out her smile, that still to this day, I choose to not talk to you because yes it’s true, I’m a little in love with you, and yes it’s true, we won’t ever exist at the same time, too many obstacles and yes it’s true, we live for poetics the modern romantics trying to be antiques inside of a masterpiece, we never knew how to love properly, so we tried to pave way inside of a kaleidoscope– if we ever fell in love, it would be a bad trip, like overdosing on lsd because you thought that you were a cactus and spines started to grow out of you, yeah that kind of fucked up. We would be messed up, but I think in some lowkey happy offset universe, we would’ve been happy about it. She talks to me about poetry like I invented it, the truth is I write to feel something, isn’t that why we do anything? These words have been written before, I’m just following footsteps, I’m just another person trying to write down my wrongs, am I wrong for it? And it was one of those days, some strange scene from an anime when the sun is setting and they’re walking across a metal bridge as friends and he comments on the days that go by without a second thought, and the water is running and she says that you can’t skateboard down slopes because you’d get in trouble, rules were meant to be broken, and if you don’t break them, you can bend them just right. And it’s that kind of day, where bookstores mean more to us than clubs. Neon soul, would you care to stay here as you are for just a little while longer? She speaks about poetry like it’s the only thing that matters. He utters back wildfire spreads wildfire. I don’t know why he said it, but it just felt right, right? And the day will end, but not before you walked us through two art museums and there’s always a juicy secret near the end of us whispering to each other about other people and what they’re up to. In this fairy tale, they don’t fall in love. In this poem, they don’t get together. In this life, they’re just friends. In this heart, they’ll be just two lost souls stuck on a bench, I’m a little tired, I’ll just rest my head on those shoulders, and I must tell you, that you look better without make up. There will a day when this is just a faded gem you’ll find in your brain. There will be a brief moment when you’ll remember those five hours, and it all started because of those five minutes when you asked if we have met before, and I know that I write long pieces with very shitty grammar and not enough elaborate metaphors, but the thing about my writing and why it’s so damn relatable may be because I write with a cold heart that just wants to feel warm, we all need that day. That day, that’ll indefinitely change us in ways that we may not be able to comprehend today, tomorrow or even by next year. A day that explains, a day that demands to be listened to and just like how a chest needs a careful set of ears to listen to its heartbeat, I’m glad that I gave a listen to yours. And maybe I’ll move out of this city where people do the same shit every fucking day and pretend that it’s okay, that this is it. We’ll work until we’re grey, get that 401k go on vacations while we’re fragile with an old passion for pastries, cheap hotels and some famous beach that all of the old people go to. There’s got to be more to life, you mentioned that a few times. This was just a glimpse to what could be with someone else, and I’m always holding onto your hands just a little too tight because I don’t want you to let go and it’s okay because today will end, but not in this memory. In this memory, we’re young forever. In this memory, we’re breaking every rule just a little bit. In this memory, I write down every little detail because I don’t give a fuck. In this memory, I play a slow dance with you until the moon finally explains itself to us in entirety. I’m full because of you, I’m empty because of you. In this memory, the metaphors never run out and the poetry isn’t just about love, it’s not about sadness anymore, it’s about clawing my way out of my thoughts and back into a moment where I’m not so depressed and I’m cracking jokes right next to you all the way down Central Park and in this memory, there’s a small chance that you could’ve been more than just someone who showed my heart around New Orleans. In this memory, I remember you as my pretty crimson. And if this memory shall ever fade, I’ll fade with it too because the more we write, the more we are, if I am what I eat and I am what I do, I’ll eat the yellow paint and write until it’s dark and if I’m ever blind and no longer the person that I was when I walked across that bridge with you– at least it’s an ending that I can dwell on. Poets write poetry, clouds use rain as a disguise, but this writer is just wearing another mask and tomorrow isn’t any different. I am the wildfire, and I’ll spread in many directions. I just hope that we never burn down together and if we do, that wouldn’t be so bad, right?
The pain was so great that he went numb, which was more than he deserved. He had done this… to her, to them. To all of them. Still, he tried to save her from ripping him apart, because he must save her, and Edith, and the doctor. “No, no, stop, please. I can’t..” He trailed off. I can’t, the litany of his life. I can’t, and so she had been forced to. He had turned into this. — Crimson Peak (book)
Renisance paintings, fields of wildflowers, old abandoned mansions with overgrowth, Greek mythos, old decorative bibles, the smell of hot herbal tea, early mornings, fresh dew on a spiderweb, makeup, large elaborate fountain sculptures, and the sound of the wind rustling leaves as they fall
Emerson Lake and Palmer:
smashed guitars, large cities at night, dusty church organs, metropolis movie posters, elegant gilded swords, old sifi novels, old alcohol bottles, the smell of cinnamon, bruised knuckles, sunsets, the smell of summer air, and the sound of a forest in winter
the ocean, iridescence, mountain air in the early morning, water lilies, greenhouses, the smell of the sea after a storm, holding hands, glittery capes, fae, ripples in a cup of water, elegant lace dresses, warm raspberry tea, daisies in the early morning sun, and grainy mermaid footage
large abandoned castles, old music books, smeared crimson lipstick, crowns made of gold and rubies, velvet robes, gold flakes, the smell of autumn, the sound of leaves crunching, baroque shattered mirrors, elaborate gilded daggers, red candle wax on a skull, the smell of insense burning, shattered crystals, blood soaked books, torn midevil tapestries, and empty parlor rooms with nothing but old broken furniture and paintings on the floor
Light shows, prisms, torn up money, the smell of old cigarettes that linger years after one was ever smoked, mushrooms, silhouettes, vintage postcards, erupting volcanos, broken walls, abandoned factories, the smell of an old book, dusty rooms, big fuzzy wool sweaters, and decorative tobacco pipes
the night sky, old science textbooks, silk kimonos, skeletons, the desert, the smell of new technology, dusty Ayn Rand novels, the sound of music through an old radio, the smell of an old maple table, the Canadian tundra, apples, smashed synthesizers, gears, grandfather clocks, and carved statues of trees