I’m tired of Willoughby’s. Where’s my Mr. Darcy? Or better yet, Colonel Brandon whose
admiration was fixed and loyal from day one.
Why can’t my life be a Jane Austen novel? Filled to the brim with female strength and
heroism, enduring rightness, and a guaranteed happily ever after. But what if I was fated to meet the same end
as Austen herself? Doomed to a loveless
existence, each day spent dwelling in
the prospects of others. It is a
terrifying outlook, indeed. So what of
all these would be’s, could be’s, should be’s?
I’m ready for my IS. I’m
ready for my right now. My happy
beginning.
No comments:
Post a Comment