feeling sentimental

Wednesday, June 22. (Winter Solstice)

She became all too aware of the transient nature of young souls;
'Fleeting, we are ghosts - fragments of our adult selves... 
Who am I now/who was I then?'

Like Keats, she believed that beauty was truth, truth beauty --
and with rose-tinted thoughts and glassy eyes,
she failed to expect the accompanying pain: of being so alive.

And when it arrived - those waves of sorrow, 
a blush crept across her cheeks: the stars spilled into the night,
'How could it be - that hearts could grow too full,
even at the ache of brimming; and remain indelibly so?'

Sixteen years - lived. 
A forever ago.

Lately, I have been struggling with copious amounts of homework, and this is made worse with my tendency to gravitate towards procrastination (one that I expect accompanies most sixteen year olds faced with the prospect of endless revision), in the form of old movies (oh - John Hughes, you are magnificent, and Sofia Coppola, how I love thee - like every other adolescent girl with an affinity for pastels and aesthetically pleasing sets).

But amid this senior year panic, I have been happy - finding myself surrounded by the sweetest people and the most astounding revelations. Term break is arriving (well-received, as always), and it seems an era since I last posted -- I have been reading quite a bit as of late, and feel as though I have become exponentially more 'aware' of the world and its past and the human condition. That said, I am still incredibly inexperienced and naive etc etc; but it is nice to feel a little less alone and a little more understanding - to have a slight grasp [tenuous/trembling/tenuous] on the world and its woes and its beauty.

(A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith/White Oleander by Janet Fitch)

I hope you are all well -
Love, always

x

(movie stills from: La belle et la bête, circa 1946)