Coffee and My Thoughts.

Dear Diary,

Just kidding. How old were you when you got your first diary/journal? I remember getting one when I was about twelve. It was purple and it came with a lock and key and everything. I rarely wrote in it for fear that someone would break into it. Then my friend gave me one for my fifteenth birthday and I had just fallen in love for the first time so I began to write in it religiously. I still have that journal and every now and then I pull it out and laugh at how naive I was back then. I probably still am, but it's interesting to me to see how my thoughts and attidude has changed over the years. It really is a good way to get to know yourself better. Sometimes I don't even remember writing those words and I have to remind myself that I'm reading about my life, rather than someone else's. And now I have a blog. A journal for everyones eyes to see.

I always despised the word diary. I always felt that it put me into this category with girls who were too emotional. I would always imagine that I would write about a boy I had a crush on and my little brother would steal it and read it to all of his little friends. I didn't want to be a typical girl. And then I realized that I was just a girl. I was talking with my roommate last night and she pointed out how girls are always apologizing for the way they are. If we cry over something, do something wrong or speak our minds we always end up apologizing for it. Since when did it become wrong to feel emotions? It made me realize that 'man' still is the more 'powerful' one of the two sexes. They never have to apologize for the way they are. If they cheat on you it's somehow your fault because you're either sexually neglectful, or too emotional. Argh! Men never have to make excuses for the way they acted, or for what they said. I mean, yes, women have come a long way, but we still have a lot further to go before we are seen as equals. And honestly, I'm pretty sure that will never happen. Anyways. I hope you realize this is all generalized. I don't actually think this about every situation. I'm just getting worked up about this. I'm sorry.

And on another note, I would like to share a poem by Robert Browning which I have been in love with since the tenth grade. Enjoy.


Porphyria's Lover
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!