because consistency is the best policy.
As in all other times in my life in which I have to study, I am livejournaling instead. I only write in my LJ in times of extreme duress, because times like these make everything that is not studying seem to me extraordinarily beautiful and heartbreaking and, at the very least, more interesting than the pages in front of me.
Case in point (LJ CUTS CAN SUCK IT):
Ah
This is my lot
This is my lot
My lot
Is a sky, which the dropping of a curtain seizes from me
My lot is going down an abandoned stairway
And joining with something in decay and nostalgia
My lot is a cheerless walk in the garden of memories
And dying in the sorrow of a voice that tells me:
"I love
Your hands"
I will plant my hands in the flowerbed
I will sprout, I know, I know, I know
And the sparrows will lay eggs
In the hollows of my inky fingers
I will hang a pair of earrings of red twin cherries
Round my ears
I will put dahlia petals on my nails
There is an alley
Where the boys who were once in love with me,
With those disheveled hairs, thin necks and gaunt legs
Still think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
Who was one night blown away by the wind
There is an alley which my heart
Has stolen from places of my childhood
That's that bitch Forugh Farrokhzad, who I am actually reading right now so that I don't get my first ever F in my life, and whose work is much more beautiful in Persian. Also much more unintelligible.
These are probably among my favorite two verses in all of poetry. I would ask this poet to marry me, but she would probably propose that we drink from the same vial of poison while holding hands instead. Sensible, and yet, less fun.
Fun over function,
Sunni
Case in point (LJ CUTS CAN SUCK IT):
Ah
This is my lot
This is my lot
My lot
Is a sky, which the dropping of a curtain seizes from me
My lot is going down an abandoned stairway
And joining with something in decay and nostalgia
My lot is a cheerless walk in the garden of memories
And dying in the sorrow of a voice that tells me:
"I love
Your hands"
I will plant my hands in the flowerbed
I will sprout, I know, I know, I know
And the sparrows will lay eggs
In the hollows of my inky fingers
I will hang a pair of earrings of red twin cherries
Round my ears
I will put dahlia petals on my nails
There is an alley
Where the boys who were once in love with me,
With those disheveled hairs, thin necks and gaunt legs
Still think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
Who was one night blown away by the wind
There is an alley which my heart
Has stolen from places of my childhood
That's that bitch Forugh Farrokhzad, who I am actually reading right now so that I don't get my first ever F in my life, and whose work is much more beautiful in Persian. Also much more unintelligible.
These are probably among my favorite two verses in all of poetry. I would ask this poet to marry me, but she would probably propose that we drink from the same vial of poison while holding hands instead. Sensible, and yet, less fun.
Fun over function,
Sunni