February 24th, 2009
I have decided to take my lunches alone in the library.
I used to take them outside in the hopes that I would perhaps catch a glimpse
of my beloved Capriol, but since such jaunts have not been particularly fruitful
lately, I have decided that they are a waste of time that could otherwise be spent writing.
(Besides, I still get those wonderous, torturous glances from the garden terrace
between 7:45 and 8 in the morning. I can survive on this.)
I spend my evenings reading novels and biographies.
I have just finished "Chopin: His Life and Music."
Chopin's music is incredible, so full of passion and poetry,
so sensuous it brings me to tears. I am fascinated by his lover George Sand,
the writer, a femme fatale of Paris who dressed like a man and smoked cigars.
I see much of myself in Madame Sand: her desire, her confidence,
her need to put her life on the page. And my Capriol, pale and delicate, is my
Chopin, my muse, my desire.'ve checked out more Chopin books from the library, and
I find myself needing to write about him.
I decided to make an account on a website for fiction, the name of which I will not specify,
since I do not want anyone with ill intentions who happens to get ahold of this book
to get ahold of my most intimate of writings.
I feel myself awakening to something, though I doubt nobody will read what I write.
The internet is a vast place, full of dreamers like myself.
Oh, but it's worth a try - for I am stuck between wanting to keep my thoughts
a secret and for them to be known to all.