I sometimes really wish Mary Shelley wrote that Victor brought the bride to life rather than destroying her. It would have really made the Creature confront himself and his place in the world if he meet another creature like himself, but not exactly like him.
Jane Austen really said ‘I respect the “I can fix him” movement but that’s just not me. He’ll fix himself if knows what’s good for him’ and that’s why her works are still calling the shots today.
Meanwhile Emily Brönte just said “We can make each otherworse.”
annotating your copy of Dracula with a spectacle resting at the bridge of your nose while the fairy like knots of your auburn hair flutters in the chilly autumn breeze.
crushing the wilted leaves on the pavements under your doc martens as the crunch of it awakens vintage polaroid pictures, dates, memories and a surge of nostalgia washes over you.
playing with your old gold coin pendant that rests so delicately over the warm fabric of your favourite black turtleneck while you read Sylvia Plath.
scribbling your incoherent thoughts in the flushed yellow pages of your journal tainted with coffee rings while the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafts through the air from the neighbourhood french bakery.
relishing in the smell of petrichor when occasional showers of rain find its way to make the days even better.
Reading literature to satisfy the curiosity of your ghost-filled heart, under the light of a twisted candle carving a halo on the face with a deep scarlet tinged lips who, eons ago had become one with the earth for hiding secrets in their hearts and potions.
