Car J'ai Sommeil

"I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying." ~Oscar Wilde

A Self-Conscious Introvert?

“It occurred to me that I have the potential to be pretty damn good at being myself. Which would be good, I think. It would be great. But first, I’m pretty sure I need to admit who that person is.”

For You In Full Blossom

AHHHHHHH I need to watch this drama so badly T.T But I know that if I start now I'll start having even more schedule troubles and whatnot and seriously just collapse in class one day. But whyyy, after I waited a year for it, why was it started this summer? Grrr. Better question, why am I so busy these days?

I'm just going to crawl into a corner and console myself with the fact that I can catch up after the PSAT and watch THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER with EMMA WATSON and LOGAN LERMAN. Gosh. Maybe all this nervous energy is finally breaking down my composure..

Too Stressed

'All goes to show that the soul in man is not an organ, but animates and exercises all the organs; is not a function, like the power of memory, of calculation, of comparison, but uses these as hands and feet; is not a faculty, but a light, is not the intellect or the will, but the master of the intellect and the will; is the background of our being, in which they lie,—an immensity not possessed and that cannot be possessed."

Emerson

Haunted

"The shows of the day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and mock us with their unreality."

Emerson

Complications

What's so simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is.

Almost Like Me, Just More So

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

Sylvia Plath