its trail of Manifest Destiny shining the brightest,
the heiress bereft of her heavenly bequest
Without a speck of stardust has not been
As others were – she has not seen
As others saw – she has not known
As others knew- she still can not find
Where the tides of the ocean by wind
Arise, rush, roll, and reach with the surge
The silent silverly soil with the urge
When the lost high star finds her at last
And returns her overdue gifts of the best.
P.S. I feel intimately acquainted with Charlotte Bronte, her fictional alter ego Jane Eyre, and Janice Sessions, the plain girl created by Arthur Miller in their quiet deportment, delicate feminity, sentimental loneliness, and plaintive want of beauty. They are, in fact, my spiritual sisters in whom I can confide my inmost feelings, repressed emotions, and provocative thoughts guarded by my own conceptions against the acerbic opinions of the brutish, insensitive rabble. Nevertheless, the aforesaid sisters all had the breakthroughs that led them to fortune, luck, happiness however it might have lasted or whatever they might have been. I feel that I am kept away from anything wonderful or even remotely felicitous ever happening to me by some unseen forces of godly or evil beings. Alas, woe is to me! Shakespeare believed that our lives are governed by the stars above us and that there are tides in the affairs of man, which taken at the right time, they will lead man to fortune. What with such cold reception of my first published e-book and what with my regret of having published it at first, I wonder when I can meet my tides and sail away into the wide ocean to reach the land of my destiny.
Dear Reader: Hey, there! Thanks for visiting my blog and reading my post. And if you express it by pressing the button into the bargain, my spirit will surely be uplifted from the rut of my so-called life. And if you are further intrigued by my e-book recently published on Amazon Kindle and drop just a few lines of your thoughts about the story upon reading (but no words of derision or sarcasm), I will feel like a millionaire without the actual sort of money in my bank account. It’s only 57 pages in total, so the book won’t take much of your precious time. Just click on the below book cover with one touch of your fingertip, and it will lead you to the place where the story begins via wondrous witchcraft. Many thanks for reading with my whole heart! Best, Stephanie
The above-referenced adjectives are hard to choose when I describe my own self. Am I out of place? Yes, I feel frequently so when I talk with others and find myself estranged from their subject matters that are uninteresting. Anachronistic? Yes, when I listen to what others say about their life patterns and their perspectives on trivia, relationships, facebooks, etc., etc…
In fact, I always feel uprooted to the time and place where I do not belong or I do not seem to find much comfortable to live. Such feeling of estrangement from the present has developed a certain kind of malaise in me, which is akin to perpetual melancholy.
I often ask myself where I should be. My peers seem to have already established themselves in their lives whether it is at home or at work; they are married with children, tending the family matters as homemakers or they are successful career women in terms of social strata outside the home. No wonder do I feel alienated from the group.
I ask again myself. “Quo vadis?” Will I always be a stranger among these aggregates I encounter here at this time of my life? My true volition is to get a crystal ball that will show me the right avenue leading me to the right place in my life. Or seeing a chiromancer may fulfill my never-ending sense of premonition.
Or it might be that all these things that I talk about and feel are nothing but a Kafkasque dream; that all of the aforesaid and things I am writing down are not of a reality but of a very realistic illusion.
It’s a Litany of Saturday Night Melancholy. Thank you all for reading it.
Alone, alone, all all alone, Alone on a Wide, wide sea.”