I just got done with my thousandth cup of tea and my second essay for finals. I quoted John Mayer and Jonathon Safran Foer. I think that calls for an "A." I was going to do Dr. Seuss or Eloise, but I decided to be serious about the whole thing and more heartfelt then whimsical. I think I like it.
I spent the last ten minutes reading quotes from The Book Thief and crying. For some reason that is the book that always gets to me. Not in an elated, shout for joy kind of way. Or some glowing, incandescent sort of feeling. But something sallow and pale. Something that presses deep and washes over. Zusak makes me weep and yearn. I think that his is the book that truly touches me every time. It's that phantom pain in your gut that this really happened but it didn't and I want it to but not at all.
I was thinking today while wearing my pink pearl earrings, a braid in my hair, and sawing tree branches. Lots of thoughts on feminism and whether or not a woman can be completely what a woman should be if she doesn't have a man. I was honestly biting my lip in frustration over my musing on the subject. I had a dream last night in a very childish, Liesel type of perspective and it was very close minded of me. Women wore dresses and had husbands and children and did not work. They were all lace and white painted tulips and soft hair and eyelashes. They were a warm gold like the color of my little sister's hair. They felt good. They were sweet. They were completed by men and positions and freedom. They were protected. They were small.
It didn't make any sense.
I think it is all because I have been perusing Amy Carmichael's book again.
I need to go make more tea, clean off my bed, and finish the story I wrote today. I actually wrote a story today. It was so because I like breakfast too. What can I say, petit dejeuner est ma favorite.
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