“I Saw My Life Branching Out Before Me Like The Green Fig Tree In The Story. From The Tip Of Every

Sometimes I wonder if people even realize how cruel they can be without saying a word. The way they look at me—cold, dismissive, like I’m something to laugh at or pity. It’s not always about what they say; sometimes it’s just the way they carry themselves around me, like I’m less. I feel overlooked all the time, like I’m just floating in the background, waiting for someone to actually see me. And I hate how much I want to be seen, especially by him. I hate how I catch myself hoping for even a glance from him. It makes me feel pathetic, like I’m betraying myself just to feel worthy for a moment. These past few days, I’ve been so angry. Just simmering beneath the surface. I keep snapping in my head, getting irritated at everything. I’m starting to feel like the angry little girl I worked so hard to bury, the one who, for years, carried the weight of her father’s rage. I hate how deeply I feel things, how sensitive I am. Lately, I’ve been drowning. Not in a river, but under the weight of never feeling satisfied with life.

—A lady and Her Quill, Letters to Dead Children: Ophelia's Journal Entries

My personal fig tree

Time is like grains of sand slipping through our fingers — the one thing in life we cannot bargain with; each lost moment gone forever. Yet I alone wander its hidden paths, reclaiming what others surrender.

—A lady and her quill, The Almanac of a Lost Time Traveler.

A new semester has begun at my school and now I'm back to writing my thesis. Something I'm not really looking forward to but I really don't have a choice. 🥀

—Queen Esther

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟, 𝑊𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑦, 𝑆𝑒𝑡 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡;

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

𝑀𝑦 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝐽𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑦𝑛, 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘, 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ. 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑙𝑒. 𝐼 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟; 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟. 𝐼𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑧𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜. 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠, 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝐻𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒… 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐾𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡.

—William Thatcher, A Knight’s Tale -The Letter

"As a woman there's just something inherently vulnerable and humiliating about being naked while wearing shoes, heels to be precise. It’s as if your dignity has been stripped away from you, reducing you to nothing more than an object for observation—expected to uphold an illusion of beauty even in your most exposed state."

In my visual arts class, we studied a sketch on ideal human proportions. What struck me was that while the male figure was fully naked, the female figure, though also nude, was depicted wearing heels. It was a subtle yet glaring reminder of the unspoken expectation that in society women must remain visually appealing even in their most vulnerable state.

—A lady and her quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.