Faith that despite not being in charge, everything is going to turn out alright. It's also interesting how difficult it can be to embrace that sunlight I have been dreaming of for so long.
I've turned to reading Emily Dickinson lately.
I swear that woman and I were meant to be. In the literary sense, of course.
A love of poetry.(The size of the hair adds a nice dramatic touch)
But truly, her words are beauty. Some say they are dark or sad, but I disagree entirely. Anything that has that much soul poured into it cannot contain anything but beauty.
I like to believe that her words contained so much wild, unkempt beauty that when they welled up in her completely, she could not leave her home, because the words would be far too much for the pale, shallow world in which she dwelt. She had to hide them, contain them, so that no one would come to harm by exposure to such great literary wilderness.
It makes sense in my head.
I'd like to write like her, but alas, I cannot. So I content myself with pouring over her wild words again and again.
I'll leave you with one of them that chills me:
A great Hope fell
You heard no noise
The Ruin was within
Oh cunning wreck that told no tale
And let no Witness in
The mind was build for mighty Freight
For dread occasion planned
How often foundering at Sea
Ostensibly, on Land
A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
And there were troughs beside
A closing of the simple lid
That opened to the sun
Until the tender Carpenter
Perpetual nail it down --
c. 1868
Beauty.
Love,
Chloe
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