I'm not one of those people who are afraid of silences. The long, painful silences in conversations. Some people say this is an indication of stupidity, oh well. I don't notice them. One conversation is fifty to me. The continous stream of thought running through my head is added to by others' conversations. But I much prefer isolation, well, most of the time. Irrational, paranoid thoughts are not unfamiliar to me when I'm alone. But when I'm alone, I escape. I am anybody and everybody I could want to be. Recently, I have been the reincarnated spirit of Virginia Woolf, of Grand Duchess Marie Romanov, and Elizabeth I, among others. Although two of these lived at the same time, therefore I was forced to choose, by my mysteriously, and perhaps surreally realistic mind. I chose Virginia Woolf, feeling a strange sort of affiliation (ridiculous, I know) and a definite admiration for her. Today, I was told that I ',,,must be one of the weirdest, most original people ever.' Of course, this compliment came from Maria, who I definitely do not consider stupid, or unintelligent, but whose experience of people's ability to be odd, weird and/or original, is, I think, quite limited. She herself is a brilliantly original person, whilst also being able to quite contentedly follow the herd. I don't know how she does it, but I think it's brilliant.Although, I myself, hate to follow the herd! She told me once of her imaginary friend. Everyone speaks of one, and I feel quite left out, for I just did not have one. Her's was 'Warden Gowen', and to assure herself of his really existing, she would cover herself in a sheet, a pink flannelette one, I always imagine, and pretend to be a ghost who said 'Warden Gowen'. In a spooky way, obviously. But my writing skills are quite incapable of expressing exactly what I am thinking. This demonstrates to me that however much I delude myself into thinking I was Virginia Woolf, somehow I don't think I was. She was brilliant, she had a gift, definitely, I, however, have only the ambition to write, not the talent. You would find it hard to believe that here is the only place I am completely truthful. Even with Rosalind, who is the only person I confide in, and can properly talk to, I still can't completely talk to her. I hate it, but I can't. There is one person, who I would wish to tell everything. One person, who could not care less. I hate him, I hate the fact that I can't completely hate him. Always, always, I go back, always believing that he really is a good, kind, person. The lovely person he was before. But then I think, of what he did, and how he tricked me, and how he lied to me and !!! It makes me so angry. It makes me think of Sense and Sensibility. Of Marianne, and how perhaps I am a little like her. I do not flatter myself I am as pretty as Kate Winslet made her.Of course not! But I think about how Willoughby left her, if he really did love her. I think he did, he really did love her, but not enough, perhaps too much. 'One that loved not too wisely, but too well'. Maybe it was because he loved her so much that he left her, because he knew what he would become without money. This suggests a little that he knew himself, knew himself so well to make decisions however painful to him they were. Maybe I am giving him depths and allowing him to be nicer and deeper than perhaps he was. I am eternally optimistic when it comes to boys, and I don't know if it is a help or a hindrance. Nevermind, I will learn, at least I hope so. I don't know what it is, how some people can have absolute power over others. How the acts of one person can so totally dominate your life. It's a bit scary, really. Since I've known him, since we became so close, it is as if my emotions have become magnified, exaggerated. As if I am suffering from some sort of mania, which really can't be good. Perhaps this is what love is like, but I hope not. It seemed to mean much more to me than it did to him, it's not right. Anyway, I shall love someone who loves me properly, for who I am, not for purely what I look like, not for a fleeting moment, it will be real lasting, real deep proper love. Sorry to sound so cringe-worthy, but it will. And if not, ' I shall teach your ten children to embroider cushions, and play their instruments very ill!' And to bore you with another quote, I am quite fond of them. But this one, I love. I really think it is lovely: ' I will have poetry in my life. And adventure, and love. Love above all. No, not the artful postures of love, not playful and poetical games of love, for the amusment of an evening...But love that overthrows life, unbiddable, ungovernable, like a riot in the heart and nothing to be done come ruin or rapture..' A sweeping statement, I know, but how pretty? That's what I want. But the chance of anything like that ever happening seems to get increasingly smaller. Of course that's what everyone wants. Well I think, even the person (I would think) least capable of wanting something like that has professed to me that he does. But then, it was to me, so what he said cannot, obviously, be trusted. It is a beautiful day today, it is so bright, the sun has lit everything so it seems to glow. It is a Sunday morning, which seems to present oppurtunities for anything to happen. But, (alas!) today I have so much work to do. Work that I detest and loathe with a passion. But it must be done. It must be spring now, but so few of the trees have leaves. Some have blossom, light pinks and grey-whites, but green evades them. The grass is exactly the bright, but sort of dark, deep, green that it is meant to be. And in my garden it is long, and thick. There are tiny, purple flowers amidst the grass, occaisionly making their presence known. And daffodils. I love daffodils, they are Easter flowers. For where my house is situated, the perfect place to sit is the front door step. The big green door behind you, and the warm, sunlit path, and step, bodered on either side by the gorgeous daffodils, and the very green grass. 'How your mind hops about' that is quite appropriate don't you think? I have just had a conversation with him, as well as numerous conversations with others. Why he began to speak to me I don't know. I thought he had quite forgotten me! Oh well. He didn't say goodbye. The Height of Rudeness!! I should think! But then, I always have this feeling that I get far more attatched to people than they ever could to me. And thats a little sad really. But then I think I have always been more like Marianne than Elinor. Never pragmatic or practical. Oh well, I know that it is true now!! I am most definitely Marianne. But then I always tend to think that of myself! That I am the heroine. I would love to be the heroine, but somehow I don't think I would be very good at it. I would always wonder how Marianne could marry Colonel Brandon after having loved Willoughby so much. I think I understand now. Anyway, Willoughby was an arse for not realising how much Marianne loved him.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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