these wilde nights

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

The Adventures and Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

All the bright precious things fade so fast, and they don't come back.

“she lives the poetry she cannot write.”

My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.

But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.

“and all i loved, i loved alone.”

AUGUST: THE TRUE ENDING OF A YEAR