I'm supposed to be studying for my AP History exam. But I needed a break. . . so I sit here blogging, praying no one notices that I'm online when I'm supposed to be studying about long-dead manifestos that I hope will perish in fiery flames.

I ought to live in a Jane Austen movie. I've had this deep-rooted desire to see Sense and Sensibility (Kate Winslet, Emma Thompson, Alan Rickman) again for a few months now and it's slowly coming to surface. I love the pastoral landscapes and empire-waist dresses. I want a straw bonnet with a graceless heap of feathers and a satin ribbon that loosely circles my chin. Just once, I'm going for a walk in period dress, my hands clasped behind me, and say Regency-esque things like "his voice has no expression, tho' his countenance is tolerable." I just adore the delicate romance and charm that seems to penetrate the era as surely as apathy and realism hangs about contemporary times. Admittedly, I would miss my computer like breath itself, but I can always dream. . . thank God for that.

"You may tire of reality, but you will never tire of dreams."

Isn't that a beautiful thought? That no matter how tired and heavy life seems to you, there will always be something to raise your eyes to. Dreams and hope are interwoven in what we think of as the future. If you take away someone's ability to dream, you rob them of some crucial aspect of their heart. That's how people acquire cruelty and indifference. They're no longer able to glance over the pain into the glimmer of the horizon.

I'm falling apart. My broken wings lie in a heavy feathered heap, and I feel as though some massive sadness is pressing down on me, like a stagnant pool of water. A single tear of blood streams down a splintered crimson rose. There's a culmulative effect of all these stones lying at my feet, and I don't even know if I can take it. I'm not sleeping well. . . I curl up into a ball, my lashes brushing the pillow as I try to let myself sink back into passive rest, but I can't do it. Troubles eat away at my heart's peace. I'm getting headaches at any moment of stress, and I could really do with a good cry as a catharsis. Or writing something that's pretty mindless. . . a nice piece of fluff for Moulin Rouge. . . that would work almost as well. But I can't. There's just a grand parade of tests and demands and expectations that I will be this person for them and nobody-- nobody even stops to consider that I might need some simple comfort. A hug. A good cry, a jacket to bury my face in.

I know this sounds whiny, but what is this if not my grumble spot? I just wish that everyone would leave me in peace for five minutes and let me just breathe. I wish my parents would stop letting their screaming echo around the house, and that my dad would stop biting at me with words that I keep hearing and I don't know why. I wish that teachers would just let me study my own way without trying to force me into activities that won't help in the least. I wish my friends weren't busy so they could take a moment to spend on me. I wish everyone would stop trying to cure me and begin trying to help me heal. No one understands that there are times when I just need to cry, or go for a walk. I need puppies and fudge, and a nice mug of peppermint tea to sip as I read Jane Austen.

Well, this ought to be character building, if nothing else. I at least have the consolation of knowing that everyone goes through soul growth, and everyone despises it as much as I do. No one ever willingly chooses to suffer. Perhaps that's the infinite goodness of God that he can inflict pain on us to make us better. I agree with C.S. Lewis there.

This probably sounds as if I'm suicidal, but I'm not-- I just want some old-fashioned, bakery love and a touch of serenity.

Isn't it strange how the moment I need to start studying seriously, it gets absolutely beautiful outside? Perhaps that's the rule of nature and AP tests. Today I ignored pressing matters of academia (rather like right now) and let the wind toss my golden-red waves around as I looked up at the mountains.

Have you ever let yourself get lost in a picture so far that you can feel the sandy ground beneath your feet? I was idly studying as my feet dangled loose and bare near the carpet. I felt my breath catch and fill my lungs painfully while I saw myself standing next to that little girl and her wheelbarrow. The gravel scratches the shadows that blur in violet-grey around the sharp patches of grass, and the sunflowers loom above my head in sunset glory. If I reached my hand up just enough. . . I could take hold of one of those ferns and turn in over in my hand in wonder.

Sometimes I wonder if reality is all that better than fantasy. . .

Today I glanced up from my history book to be treated with the sight of conservatory (or, more prosaically, a concrete shelf overflowing with the brilliant colours of flowers). Shabby florescent lights were resting from their winter stint of providing health, and in their stead, light filtered through the dirty windows. I looked at the plants for a while, and thought about becoming a college professor, but that dream slipped away quickly. It was replaced by something humbler, but in a way, more beautiful. I began to hope for a chance to wander outside at lunch. I could taste the calm chill of the air already as drops of imaginary precipitation slid off my fingers.

I think it’s important to keep your instinctive love of nature close. Some people lose it early in their lives-- so early that they never knew what they held. You can’t miss what you don’t remember having, and that’s where the real tragedy lies. If I didn’t have that sanctuary, I would lose some vital, pulsing element of my soul. What happens to people who can no longer glory in the dance of bubbling water or the faint whisper of grass that scrapes against the sky?

I need that hope more than ever. I feel as though I’m slipping away from the world. I only live in certain times and places. The rest of the time I fasten my silent mask and respond the way I’m expected to. George keeps saying that I answer with “fake” statements, and I suppose he’s right. It’s so easy to force a smile and say that I’m fine. Besides, what’s left to hold me here? I’ve voluntarily cut myself adrift from my home. I don’t know why, really. Perhaps to spare myself the pain of bidding farewell to a world that I have no rightful part in. I don’t belong in this trim little world of college and marriage, religion and community. I have what’s termed a “creative temperament.” I’m moody, impetuous, dreamy, and in my own shy way, passionate. It’s hard to live in a society that expects conformity as a way of life.

My vision of what is right and good is only my own. And yet, I wonder if I’ll be allowed to play it out. I feel as though there’s some divine influence working over my would that I cannot explain. It’s almost as if you know your voice is beautiful. . . but your lips refuse to move and let the song out.

In lighter news, here's a pic of me and my puppy. I think it's cute.

The Moulin Rouge category has 496 stories on it. That makes me a little sad, like a small town that is filled with people who can't love the place like the original citizens do. The people that move in can't know about those dear little spots that hold memories as well as flowers and fountains. Nor do they really want to (at least most of the time) in which lies the crux of the problem.