self-delusion
09.10.03 @ 12:34 a.m.
There isn't much for me to say for myself tonight. I think I might take the private entry feature for a test drive at some point, but not right now. It's too late, I should be asleep if I have any hopes of keeping myself to a sleep schedule anywhere near 'normal,' which is to say normal for other people. I'm a natural night owl. Usually.
Immersed as I usually am in Pride and Prejudice, I got to thinking about something. Two, maybe three months ago I said I thought I could bear being Jane to Who Boy Nick's Bingley. For all that I rather fancy myself as more of an Elizabeth figure and find the brooding Darcys of the world more attractive. The idea I was striving for was that separation and disappointment was okay for a happy ending. Recently it's occured to me that I always thought of Jane and Bingley's separation as being a matter of a few months, like, oh, three or four. Stupid. If it's been above eight months at least since Bingley and Elizabeth danced at Pemberley, you have to also add on all Elizabeth's high angst time whilst Lydia was in London with Bingley. (Oh lord, if you don't understand this, either read P&P or rent the very fine BBC/A&E production. Five hours, but hey, five hours of Colin Firth. *swoon*) Nine months of low-grade angst? (Low-grade because Jane is complying and sweet, unlike the more passionate Elizabeth. Oh, I am so Elizabeth.)
Okay, now we've reached the point where we realize Ellen is sad and pathetic because the characters of Jane Austen are her archetypes of the world. Also the admission that she's still lightly pining for a boy she's only really talked to once, but stared at a great deal. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I've built up a whole hopeful fantasy thing around that boy. Like my minor conviction that his friend looked at my name on one of the Rock Window assignments. Or that time he almost sat by me during one of the tests.
He had lovely sea green eyes and one time he waved at me coming into the building where we had class.
And I am so sad, and so lonely, that I persist in thinking about it. I should not write when I'm in a romantic haze, should I? I've delved back into my all time favorite book and all the variations and analysis people make, and it's left me stuck thinking about Darcy and all the lost opportunities or foolish crushes of my life.
I'm a hopeless romantic. I've resigned myself to that.
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
