Apr 02, 2009 16:11
Sitting in my laptop workspace, my Chanel bag graces a wood-stained workspace. A leaflet of paper leans against my laptop. My Cafe Mocha, parallel to my excessively large English anthology, emphasizes that I am nowhere near finished writing about Paradise Lost. I am poetic. I am critical. I am listening to Morrissey.
Milton writes his epic poem [classically epic, rather than post-modern-emo-teen epic] so that Satan is the hero. I find myself questioning, as a reader, how much I admire Satan [from a literary standpoint, of course] for his mystique & his cunning. He is something to behold.
I have tasted the fruit. I have fallen.
When I was a little girl, I was unknowingly lactose-intolerant. I would lean over the toilet of public restrooms, crying as my mother held my hair back, vomiting violently and feeling the immense pain of every organ in my body. I repeatedly asked my mother, "Why did Adam & Eve have to sin? If they never sinned, I wouldn't be in so much pain right now. I would still be in Paradise". Clearly, I was destined to be an English major.
Pride. Knowledge. Vanity.
God, I am so human.
Had I been in that garden, I know I would have done the same.
way to work on your paper danielle,
tangled earphones,
melancholy rain