(no subject)
I wrote last night at like 1am because I couldn't sleep and I was listening to Jane Eyre (musical) and I felt so lonely. Yeah, so I'm thinking about starting a new novel, maybe one I will actually finish??? (*cackle*- this is very unlikely). No ideas for overall plot yet.
If I believed there was a God, I would throw myself down and implore Him to tell me the error of my ways. An atheist such as I finds no relief in prayer and indeed there was no relief in the solitary hours of darkness when sleep had forsaken me. I tossed and turned amongst the stormy oceans of bed clothes, and though the summer night was calm, endured a most chaotic tempest of emotion. Loneliness such as I have never felt often came to me in those hours. An avid reader of classic romances, I examined my situation under the eye with which I would peruse Austen, Bronte and Gaskell. Still no answer came to me. I clutched at my pillows, hugging them to my chest. The strains of the musical which had perhaps inspired this feeling this night faded. If music was the spark from which the flame grew, silence was the hand that fanned it. I felt thus: that I wanted to love and be loved more than anything else, for to me to love and love passionately seemed as natural a thing as to breathe. And, not being in a position to share this hidden desire with anyone, for indeed, only the worthy should know of this softness behind my hard exterior, my complete isolation from the world seemed complete. By and by, Bitterness raised her voice in my noisy mental deliberation. ‘What is the use of such a capacity to love,’ said She, ‘If it is never put to use?’ I felt I would always be condemned to such solidarity by looks and my astuteness of mind. It has been my experience that young men never sought women who challenged and rivalled them in their intellect. Again, Bitterness reflected on my cleverness: many believed it a blessing; I rather fancied it a curse. Not able to bear lying in bed restless, I rose and walked to the window. Looking out over the darkness of the yard, something within me stirred and asked how I might place so much worth in a man’s affection, how I might scorn the efforts of those before to ‘burn the bra’. The answer was simple, but the Realist in me hated it, and hated it passionately. Yet the Romantic was composed as it said: everyone desires to be loved, and you, with so much love yet to give, naturally desire to encounter him in which to invest it, and for him to invest his love in you. I smiled wryly at this thought. Only the night observed my humour. I rather fancied darkness could read these looks far better than my peers. I had often heard tales of my notoriety and reputation, and I had often laughed and grieved their miscalculations. I was not arrogant. I was not one to suffer fools perhaps, but in my heart of hearts I did not believe myself to be without fault, or superior than the stupidest of the fools. Ah, how I thought myself to be a fool, especially at times such as this! How, you ask, was I a fool? (If perhaps you yourself are too foolish to see it.) The proud cynic says, ‘but what is not foolhardy about entertaining fantasies of true love and happiness?’ Indeed, I often agree with him. But no, my folly was less forgivable. I was not naïve, but I was perpetually unsatisfied. No achievement would please me; no situation attained was for long preferred. No, I would never find happiness- not in accomplishment, wealth, great beauty or even love. For mine was a body with two souls: one an ardent Romantic, quick tempered but gentle, idealistic and eager to please; the other it’s complete opposite, a hardened pessimist, bitter, cruel and cold. My life was plagued by a constant struggle between these forces; both strived to be the dominant, yet over the years pessimism had gained the upper hand. Now, my countenance betrayed its ruler, I scowled like no other according to the old adage ‘practise makes perfect’ yet still, when I least expected it, a contented feeling reminiscent of happiness would pass over me, always fleeting yet still, always welcome, and for an hour or a minute, the Romantic would place her hand of command on my mind. Such times were always followed by cold bouts of reality, pessimism once again my master, but they were worth the punishment I knew I must endure at their expense. My expressive eyes roamed over the landscaped blanketed in shadow. Slowly, these thoughts dwindled and I felt sleep overcome me. The storm had past: it had been weathered. I laid down on my pillow, unafraid of further tumult that night.
Ok day. Went to work, afterwards citying with Bila- saw Corpse Bride. It's excellent, funny and Tim Burton-ish. Go see it!
If I believed there was a God, I would throw myself down and implore Him to tell me the error of my ways. An atheist such as I finds no relief in prayer and indeed there was no relief in the solitary hours of darkness when sleep had forsaken me. I tossed and turned amongst the stormy oceans of bed clothes, and though the summer night was calm, endured a most chaotic tempest of emotion. Loneliness such as I have never felt often came to me in those hours. An avid reader of classic romances, I examined my situation under the eye with which I would peruse Austen, Bronte and Gaskell. Still no answer came to me. I clutched at my pillows, hugging them to my chest. The strains of the musical which had perhaps inspired this feeling this night faded. If music was the spark from which the flame grew, silence was the hand that fanned it. I felt thus: that I wanted to love and be loved more than anything else, for to me to love and love passionately seemed as natural a thing as to breathe. And, not being in a position to share this hidden desire with anyone, for indeed, only the worthy should know of this softness behind my hard exterior, my complete isolation from the world seemed complete. By and by, Bitterness raised her voice in my noisy mental deliberation. ‘What is the use of such a capacity to love,’ said She, ‘If it is never put to use?’ I felt I would always be condemned to such solidarity by looks and my astuteness of mind. It has been my experience that young men never sought women who challenged and rivalled them in their intellect. Again, Bitterness reflected on my cleverness: many believed it a blessing; I rather fancied it a curse. Not able to bear lying in bed restless, I rose and walked to the window. Looking out over the darkness of the yard, something within me stirred and asked how I might place so much worth in a man’s affection, how I might scorn the efforts of those before to ‘burn the bra’. The answer was simple, but the Realist in me hated it, and hated it passionately. Yet the Romantic was composed as it said: everyone desires to be loved, and you, with so much love yet to give, naturally desire to encounter him in which to invest it, and for him to invest his love in you. I smiled wryly at this thought. Only the night observed my humour. I rather fancied darkness could read these looks far better than my peers. I had often heard tales of my notoriety and reputation, and I had often laughed and grieved their miscalculations. I was not arrogant. I was not one to suffer fools perhaps, but in my heart of hearts I did not believe myself to be without fault, or superior than the stupidest of the fools. Ah, how I thought myself to be a fool, especially at times such as this! How, you ask, was I a fool? (If perhaps you yourself are too foolish to see it.) The proud cynic says, ‘but what is not foolhardy about entertaining fantasies of true love and happiness?’ Indeed, I often agree with him. But no, my folly was less forgivable. I was not naïve, but I was perpetually unsatisfied. No achievement would please me; no situation attained was for long preferred. No, I would never find happiness- not in accomplishment, wealth, great beauty or even love. For mine was a body with two souls: one an ardent Romantic, quick tempered but gentle, idealistic and eager to please; the other it’s complete opposite, a hardened pessimist, bitter, cruel and cold. My life was plagued by a constant struggle between these forces; both strived to be the dominant, yet over the years pessimism had gained the upper hand. Now, my countenance betrayed its ruler, I scowled like no other according to the old adage ‘practise makes perfect’ yet still, when I least expected it, a contented feeling reminiscent of happiness would pass over me, always fleeting yet still, always welcome, and for an hour or a minute, the Romantic would place her hand of command on my mind. Such times were always followed by cold bouts of reality, pessimism once again my master, but they were worth the punishment I knew I must endure at their expense. My expressive eyes roamed over the landscaped blanketed in shadow. Slowly, these thoughts dwindled and I felt sleep overcome me. The storm had past: it had been weathered. I laid down on my pillow, unafraid of further tumult that night.
Ok day. Went to work, afterwards citying with Bila- saw Corpse Bride. It's excellent, funny and Tim Burton-ish. Go see it!