#4. Edison.

(via?)

Dear Fleur.

I am going to let you all in on something.
Emily Dickinson was normal.
Oh yes, I just said she was. Face.
(For those of you who don't know anything about Emily, go ahead and read this very informative Wikiarticle.)
A lot of people think she was crazy. And maybe she did lock herself in her room. Maybe she did wear a lot of white. Maybe she did communicate mostly with handwritten letters.
But.
Have you ever read the things she wrote?
Honestly.

I can remember the first thing I ever read of Emily's.

"Hope is a thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul..."

It was then that I knew this woman had it. She knew something I didn't. And I wanted it. So I read everything I could that she'd ever written. Letters. Poems. Stories. They filled my heart. I fell in love with her.
Then I read about her.
The things people said. "Crazy...insane...epileptic...invalid...sickly...unwell...unhappy..." So many disgusting and unjust words. They didn't describe my Emily Dickinson. They had to be talking about a different woman. Someone else. They had to be wrong.

I think people judge when they don't understand.

With all my entire soul&heart, I think Emily was in love. But she couldn't have that man. He wouldn't have her. Or maybe he did. Maybe there's a whole other story we don't know.

People are afraid of beautiful things because they fall apart so easily.

Emily Dickinson was gorgeous.
Her life was incredible. I wish I could live the way she did. She may have been behind walls and never seen people's faces. but she wrote beautiful things. She lived in paper.
I WANT TO DO THAT.

Live in my work.

Some people think I'm crazy. I have actually been told that. And maybe my hair is always mess. Maybe I do eat breakfast while sitting on the kitchen floor. Maybe I do talk to myself as I write.
But.
I like it.
And if you ever see me sitting in my front yard in a reupholstered chair writing letters to C.S.Lewis(I will do this one day), then know that I am happy.
Maybe completely mad.
But happy.
Because chances are, I'll be in love too. And it might not work out. I might rip up 100 magazines and use 38 gluesticks and write 71 stories for him, but he might not want me.
But it'll be fine.
Because Emily Dickinson's love poems will be on my knee.

Love. Bells.