Written Off of a Jane Austen High

Sometimes I wish I was born in a different era, at a different time. Sometimes it’s stifling—this life. There are times when I can’t quiet suppress that quiet, disappointed voice asking, “Is this it?”

I wish I lived in a world with parchment and quills, balls and ebony fans, vast gardens and lily ponds. Sometimes I look out the window in the hopes that I might see pine trees and coaches, coarse grass and weeds, and a distant river perhaps, or a lake. Every time I am reminded of the time I live in—a world bereft of any great art, story or love, it is so excruciatingly painful, I’m surprised I don’t just crumble right there.

I live in a world where people can’t be bothered to use complete words as they communicate with each other; I burn with jealousy every time I pick up an Austen novel and look and simply marvel at the intricate sentences and subtle insults she offers. I suppose that is one of the primary reasons I wish to have lived in a different time: language used to be beautiful and delicate.  Though born out of necessity, it still managed to be a luxury, something to be enjoyed—swished and rolled around in your mouth like wine, before it glides down your throat like silk.

I live in an indecisive world. There are no distinct right and wrong—people are not bound by propriety, yet they still put on moral airs—which wither away at the slightest temptation. Money has become indispensable. It’s true it always was, but now, instead of a means to live it has become a reason to kill.

It is very easy to dream of a grand life filled with sunsets after sunrise, fame and purpose—indeed I believe it is the custom to do so. But there comes a time when you see these dreams for what they are: silly, unattainable products of an overambitious mind—pined after, but not to be indulged. Everyone aspires for greatness. Few, if ever, manage to sell enough of their soul to have the chance to gaze upon it for a few seconds.

My future life as I picture it right now doesn’t seem all that desirable. I would study to get into college (though Ivy League would be preferred, I’m not delusional enough to expect it or even hope for it), then study to successfully pass out of college. Then work, make money, and then eventually die. Once I walk out of the gates of high school for ever, any notions that I had of becoming an authoress or artist of any kind will be thrown to the wind along with the gradation caps, to be looked back on fondly–but from afar, lest I get burned by the intense desire of those hopes.

I’m not half as smart as I would like to believe and entirely too bound by morals to ever dare do anything which might in some way harm those who wish to see me content—even if it is against my will. No, I’m not being submissive, merely scrupulous. What I mean to say is, I am not—nor will I ever be allowed to be—unethical enough to go entirely against what is expected of me by family (not that they would ever be self-serving enough to not have my best interests at heart; in fact, I have been quite often encouraged to go after what I want, but I am–perhaps irrationally–afraid that that will end once I grow up and when society will no longer be generous enough to write away my faults as the uninformed, innocent blunders of a child)

It’s raining outside right now. Quiet heavily. Smells nice.

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