epinephinem

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I’m just a random girl who pops up on his phone screen to bother him. I’m not much more to him considering he has his own city, family, friends who I don’t exist to.

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I wish it was socially acceptable to attempt suicide to make someone stay with you

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You make me want to change

Break my bed to make me want to stay

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A conversation I had the other day made me think of this poem I wrote in high school ….♡

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Jane and Rochester are my favourite couple hands down but funny enough one of my favourite scenes in the book is their breakup. Not only is it filled with such raw emotions and passion but Charlotte Brontë fed us so much poetic symbolism on their wedding night!!!

1. Rochester bridal carries Jane down the stairs when she felt faint. What stereotypically happens on a wedding night? A groom bridal carries his bride to the bedroom to consummate the marriage. Ironic how it’s reversed… they are descending the stairs and leaving the bedroom.

2. Rochester seating Jane in his chair. His chair symbolizes authority and power. Jane sits in his chair because symbolically she now holds the power and authority over what happens to their relationship. Having Rochester place Jane in his chair foreshadows his realization at the end of the scene that he is in fact powerless, and there is nothing he can do to make Jane stay unless it’s of her own free will. His fate lies within her choice.

3. Again, Charlotte plays with the theme of traditional marriage ceremonies and gives Jane & Rochester reverse wedding vows. Typically in the marriage ceremony there is a vow made followed by an “I do���. Charlotte cleverly uses this but makes it a vow of separation between Jane and Rochester. He pleads to Jane if she really means to go and Jane replies “I do”, then Rochester repeatedly asks if she means it after kissing her to which Jane responds “I do” each time.

4. Rochester’s “I could bend her with my finger and thumb” speech. This whole monologue is full of symbolism as Rochester reasons with himself if physical violence would be his last resort in making Jane stay. Nothing he has said could convince her to yield. He knows he is powerless, though there is one place he still knows he holds more power… in his physical strength. He verbalizes in pretty graphic symbolism what would happen if this option would get him what he wants (Jane) but it won’t do. Even if he got to Jane’s body he wouldn’t have her soul (and that’s really what he wants). He realizes the ONLY way he can have Jane is if her will decides it and this is the moment he finally lets her go.

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Love these spring evenings when I'm off of work. Have dinner, then take a long long walk in the surrounding neighborhood. In bed by 9 pm.

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Coworker was exhausting my conversational ability today, and she asked me if I like it here. (Here being Uni/city.) I don’t know what I meant by this, but in response I said that I “don’t know if I’ll like it anywhere.” ?

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I love to walk aimlessly, and I keep spiders in my pocket.

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Pilot is a LANDSEER. Please, please, let people finally understand that Rochester's dog looks like this

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Prose piece for my mom. She would be 48 this Tuesday.

My mom is a pianist. She sings like a dying dream, only sometimes. The pendulum swings. She dreams of being born different in moments in between.

Swallowing a migraine, daring to be functional. Somehow at 40 it’s unrealistic. My mom is so skinny and she’s acting strange. My mom is a pianist. Doors slam, she strikes the keys. Sudden and with the strength to split sugar trees.

Small, I see her in a corner store cashier’s small, small smile. My mom is a pianist who throws the fits of a child.

My mom is a pianist, she’s yet to visit me in dreams. Still, I hear those dining room keys. I see her in happiness, honest and utterly empty. I find her in myself. At once and finally clean.

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Thin and pronged, I drew my sheets from the bed and there it lay, thin and pronged. Small, it lay where she used to lay. Small and weightless, it brought me to my knees. Never dull, always beautiful. It lay where I’d watch her in mornings, eyes unfolding, blossoming like tulips. 

I crawled. I crawled from the wooden floor to where she used to lay like a little fire. Burning, still in sleep. I brought the sheets back to me, so delicate did I hold the dainty thing in my hands. Dainty and copper, dying in my hands. The image of her golden hair sprawled across the sheets, crowning her pink pale face. 

Thin, pronged, small, dainty- I could bend it between my fingers, break it with my thumb, but I could not bring her back to me. Always beautiful, always burning, never dull.

The Bobby Pin

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More often than not I feel like a Victorian woman.

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