"Sins are forgiven equally for all, but communion in the Holy Spirit is given in the measure of each one’s faith"
So beautiful. (by Marta Nael)
you desired my attention but denied my affections
Can’t handle it. A combination of my favorite show and my favorite band. Love.
looking at this… oh my. can my hair be like this please? please? ugh
TRY ALL THE BRAIDS!!!!
Ahh!! I want my hair to do these things!
Reflections on Daisy Miller
I disliked Daisy Miller after meeting her the first night. At our second meeting my spite for her overtook me so that her words never even met my ears. I had no need to hear her speak; the very way in which she carried herself spoke before her words fell out in a tumble. The light brush of her fingers over the folds of her dress spoke conceit, her time with him suggested scandal, and her uncouth behavior threatened to spoil her. Capricious, indiscreet, and entirely short-sighted. My abhorrence for her almost kept me from seeing her through to the end. But I did.
I did. I begrudgingly watched Daisy’s dignity wither away. I heard of her death, and no change betook me. She was and then she was no more.
A day passed. I am still not moved by her death. Yet I cannot view her life with indifference. Most begrudgingly I have seen that while living she traversed a path not unlike my own. Knowing very well what others would think, she entertained slander. Disgrace and infamy hung on her like cigarrete smoke. She knew her bounds and at what point the price of freedom was too costly. Let others think what they may was her anthem. Her standard, only that she might be at peace with herself. Others did talk and soil her reputation. She counted the cost. Aware of what they would assume, she relentlessly pursued thrills. Outwardly, a scandal; inwardly still a saint. Who could know the truth but she?
But people talked as they always do. And she fell from what little height to which she was raised. And I abhored her for it. ‘
Had I known I was reading my own story what awareness would have overcome me! Am I not playing the fool’s game and waiting for my reputation to crumble while my character remains intact? Appearing as another yet living as myself, people must question my integrity. I swore to myself I would never write anything that did not express my true thoughts. Do I not write the story of my life each time I slip between unsteady figures and let my voice blend into the music? It is a form of expression all of the same. All are reading me as a book. I have broken my promise. I have written a lie.
"This girl shivers and crawls under the covers with all her clothes on and falls into an overdue library book, a faerie story with rats and marrow and burning curses. The sentences build a fence around her, a Times Roman 10-point baracade, to keep the thorny voices in her head from getting too close."