a love impossible, misunderstood, destroyed.
I used to have a blog. I used to pour my heart out in it, trying to make sense of life and all the shit that was thrown and me (and that I inflicted on myself).
We’re our worst critics, aren’t we? We do nothing but second guess ourselves, criticize our every move… wondering and what ifs are a common thing in people like us.
And don’t get me wrong, I like being like this. I like thinking before acting. I like making a conscious decision to do (or don’t do) something. I take responsibility for every good (and terribly fucked up) decision I’ve made. It’s who I am. It’s who I’ve always been.
But sometimes, just sometimes I wish I could be a bit more reckless, a bit less concerned about tomorrow, about what the morning will bring. I wish I could stop considering and calculating every possible outcome, every response from the person in front of me before I even asked a damn question.
I hardly get surprised anymore because of that. Okay, granted, I never liked surprises much, because they’re usually not good. But, what about when people surprise you? When someone you barely know says something nice to you? When someone that you consider your best friend just shows up at work or comes home because they just know when you’re faking being okay?
I’m rambling I know, I don’t even know why I’m typing this here.
I guess I miss that blog.
I guess getting ready for that fair and prepping up Susan’s costume made me remember when I kept saying “Fuck Narnia” two years ago. I still think the same. I still feel that I’m the same place as I was 2 years ago.
Yet, I’m not. I may not have move forward much, but at least I moved sideways. I’m not in the same place. I may still be (very deep down), the same little helpless romantic girl that wrote cheesy soap operas at the age of 10 but I also were heels now, and make up and I do damage control, and I work hard and try to stay away from drama.
I guess I traded the soaps for fanfics and RP characters. Yeah, that’s probably it.
Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
Jessica Brown Findlay in ’ Labyrinth’ (x)