It Does Not Matter The School You Come From But Your Passion For Your Subject. There Are Private School
It does not matter the school you come from but your passion for your subject. There are private school boys who have never lived life, slept through it as it is but a dream to them who will never know the endless strife of the girl from nowhere trying to make it in this world on grit and determination alone. No money in her pockets to cushion her falls and catch her when she is pushed back from the gates of academia. Only the belief that she will get back up; propelling her like north wind on a shanty sail.
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Melodic, melismatic is she. Her song is her figure dancing in air, steam rising ever out of reach.
Hope lives in the eyes of children. I can see that now that it has left mine.
A mermaid is born when a heart is buried, deep in the trenches of the blue sea. A mermaid coveting motherhood need only snatch a sailor’s heart and offer it to the seabed, and within hours, her baby girl will rise from the sand and into her arms. What happens, though, when a mermaid steals the heart of another mermaid? How will the others forgive a murder, even if it is done out of love?
-Diary of a Siren
Why is it whenever I am alone I slip my hand beneath my black wool jacket and find any wound I can and open it again, to bleed, to bleed. Is it really my destiny to bask in life so little and ruminate on the scarcity for the rest of it? Is my stomach shrunken and my heart empty, am I a vessel that cannot be filled and can only watch as others are?
She was a moth that waited for the light to find her. And when she died it was dark as always.
In another world, I am strong. And withstanding, and sure of myself. I pray she’s well, for I certainly am not.
'Sunrise Water Nymphs' by Arthur Prince Spear, (1879 - 1959).
Why is it light is thought of as good and dark as evil? As if the shadows sewn to our heels want anything more than to be like us.
Why do the ones I love keep being taken from me? What have I done to deserve shards of their memory pricking my fingertips like spindles every time I scroll on my phone and see a face that has stolen a piece of them? Their eyes on someone else’s head, their smile creasing someone else’s cheeks, their ginger hair curling around someone else’s ears that don’t fucking look right! I hate that I see you everywhere. I hate more that it’s never you.
I was his worry stone.
he couldn’t pick my face out of a crowd,
Or name a single interest of mine;
he couldn’t bother to wash his mug in the sink,
Or put the coffee on in the first place;
he couldn’t braid my hair while he spoke,
Or untangle the nest he made.
All he could do was rub his hands together,
And wonder where I’d gone,
after eroding me away.
