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the liquid dew of youth.

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How My Heart Was Broken [Dec. 27th, 2004|02:32 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
As you all may have gathered, I had very strong feelings for my ex-friend Isobel for a very long time. It is not easy for me to open up my heart to others and feel so strongly for them. My love for that .. person had been developing for a while, and I constantly had to suffer as she went through boyfriend after boyfriend, always being the confidante and the one she would come crying to, but never the lover, no. Perhaps you may think this is because Isobel is not a uh, homosexual, but let me make you aware of the following facts:

1. She has had three girlfriends, one of whom stole her mobile phone
2. I was content to have a platonic relationship, much like that between Ficini and Cavalcanti (although perhaps minor touching and caresses would have been permitted and in the natural order of things), and would have been honoured to call Isobel mi amica più perfetta - but well, as you will see, it refused this great honour.

After the creature from the depths of some primeval swamp (otherwise known as her boyfriend Stephen) broke up with her for approximately the fortieth time after a disagreement over Chicken McNuggets (yes, the creature was feeding her processed beaks, intestines and water at £3.45 a box) I took the liberty of finally professing my love to her with this letter:

Dearest Isobel,

The time has come for me to profess a great secret. I am sure you have already guessed it. There is nothing that can be hidden when two people have a most perfect understanding as we do. Every slightest action, every subtle motion, every small moment - all these are like words of a secret and ancient language. Love is the key to unlocking it, especially a love such as ours, which starts as a seed... a seed nestled deep within the dark places of the heart. It grows to flower like the cherry blossom, and each perfect petal is a second that has passed between the companions. They may wither, and fall, but they only become the earth once more, ever-eager to nurture such wondrous affection.

Oh, Isobel, you are like a nymph from the myths of the Ancients, a creature that has stumbled out of that world of azure and gold and somehow fallen - like the angel you are - into this terrible place filled with grey machinery, rain-darkened streets and cold iron. You are abandoned and hurt, lashed to cruel rocks and faced only with doom like Ariadne - your heart tormented, twisted, beset with fear. I have come to save you, as Dionysos saved that sad maiden. I shall place upon your beautiful head the golden crown of my love. In your pale hands, fluttering like white-winged doves in the half-light, I shall put the jewels of my being. These will be nothing when compared to the jewels that are your eyes, but they are all I have. And when we die, your crown shall set itself into the firmament, uniting our souls in Heaven as they have been united on Earth, growing brighter each night and preserving our glorious love.

Isobel, do not reject me. Do not leave me as Helios left Clytie to become a plant, a thing, grounded in sorrow. For if you do not love me, I could become no plant. I could be no living thing. Only death would await me.

If you accept the gift of my heart - and I know you must - meet me tomorrow at platform nine and three quarters at Kings' Cross station, just as the student of Hogwarts wait for their train. Meet me at 3.13pm, and we will take each other's hand and stroll into the most perfect of futures, that of our eternal and everlasting companionship, our most delicate yet unbreakable love.

Forever yours,
Cornelia.


I wrote this letter on beautiful paper, with golden ink. I ran to her abode in the middle of the night, in the rain, to deliver it with a beating heart. I did not go home, then. I went instead to the steps of my church, and waited the night through in the most peaceful cold, side by side with the homeless sleeping there. It was to be a memorable night, I thought, the night before my life at last became all I had ever hoped and dreamed for. I spent that night watching the stars, huddled in the corner to avoid the drunken shouts of the students and frightening tribes of men wandering past. I avoided the advances of the drug addicts. I did all this because I had to. I knew she would never know, but, if she loved me, would understand the second she looked at my tired yet happy eyes and my clothes that smelled a little gross the next afternoon.

But it was not to be. 3.13 came and went. I stood for two hours, with a beating heart, imagining wild scenarios - imagining her flattened under the heavy tires of the rushing cars on the road outside!! And then at 6pm I received a text from her:

hey i have biggest hangover eva do u want 2 go 2 kfc? had sex last nite w stephen it was gr8!! will tell u all about it l8r. got weird letter from u but it was wet so threw it out. was it another poem? call me.

We did not even go to KFC. Why? Because, she later called me to tell me that she couldn't, she had to go to 99p cocktail night at the union, and commit indecent acts with her boyfriend.

That is when I went home, slit my wrists in a tub full of ice, and was found later by my mother after the night shift at Tesco local. I spent the next four days in hospital.

After that, I could not feel. I was numb. All that I felt was vague surprise. Who thought that so much blood could flow from a heart that had stopped beating, a heart that was broken, that had collapsed in on itself, that was sick with despair, that was filled with hatred?

I hate her now. What was once love, is now hate. I hate so much that I truly could die from it. And sometimes, I hope that I do.

*cries*
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Christmas [Dec. 27th, 2004|01:18 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |melancholymelancholy]
[music |geraldine farrar]

Christmas was a sad affair this year, and yet beautiful at the same time.

We all went to Aunt Bessie's house, where Philip (my horse) stays. As usual, the lack of money made Christmas a bit strained. My horse, Philip, was a gift from my paternal grandfather, after my father died. It was his last and only gift to me, and since then my mother and I have struggled immensely. I don't mean to sound like I am complaining, but it has been hard, and times like Christmas just make me realise it more than ever. There were no presents, for example, because mother lost her job a few months ago at Sainsbury's in the cutbacks, and Aunt Bessie was doing all she could by having us there (and looking after Philip, I must mention). But it was still a beautiful Christmas. We ate dinner, and drank mulled wine, and we made a toast to my father. This year, I read out a poem I had written about the last twelve months, as is Christmas tradition:

A Heart is a Delicate Thing
You, witch of the underworld
Vampire of the seas
Demon, that has injected
Weird poisons into my bloodstream

You are like a disease
You flow through me
Black, insidious!
A vile virus, I cannot rid myself of you

Perhaps, before, I loved you
But now I utterly detest you
You are like sweet nectar
That has turned rotten

Under purple skies, you will cease
To exist, the sun will cleanse me
Like foam upon the river
The black flecks on my heart will disappear.


Aunt Bessie even cried!! She said it reminded her of the time Uncle Ivan died (he died in a mining accident), because she had been forced to marry him, and even after his death could never stop hating him.

After that, I went outside to the stables and fed Philip carrots. It was about 11pm, and the night was frosty and cold. I sat against his warm side and cried. I wish somebody loved me.

Mother and I took the bus home the next day. It broke my heart. Not even enough money for a train trip (or a car, for that matter) and we had to ask Aunt Bessie to help us out. I just hope I can get a job after university, although of course I am doing something totally useless like English literature. Perhaps I can go into journalism though, although I would just love to study.

Oh dad, why did you have to leave us?
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since i last updated... [Dec. 24th, 2004|12:27 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |angryangry]
[music |dizzee gillespie.. his angry music]

Changes in my life:

likeawinter is from now on only worth scorn and disgust. I have never hated a single human so much before. I hope she dies in hell, and has maggots lay eggs in the backs of her eyelids. Die, you thing.

I have stopped writing my novel about the monastery and Philip. I have begun a story about a girl who falls in love with another girl, but then that other girl turns out to be a gigantic bitch, and then she gets HIV/AIDS which is not funny but, she deserves it.

I have transferred from Classics to English Literature, where the people are rougher. They even smoke.

I have died inside.
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a decision. [Mar. 29th, 2004|11:46 pm]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |determined]
[music |la mamma morta]

As you all may have gathered, I am very intrigued and some may say slightly obssessed with the idea of monastic life. I know that monks often took a vow of silence, and since I have no classes to attend for the time being, I have decided to do the same.

I think this will bring clarity to my life. Part of it is not talking to people - indeed, not even seeing them. In some cases, this break will be temporary. In others, it will be indefinite.

I will endeavour instead to attend church as often as I can. On some days, I may sit in the park. I will still read, and study, and write in this journal.

I am considering other things that I may add to my vow. Fasting, for example, or even though it may seem a little strange, some small amount of physical pain. I know that the monks often did this, too.

Has anyone else had experience with this? What would they suggest? Did it prove useful for them?

In this, I believe, and in removing all harmful influences from my life, I may truly find myself. I expect to write much poetry, and work on my pieces.

I also expect sorrow - the true essence of any really valuable existence. I am prepared for it.
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hurt [Mar. 27th, 2004|04:37 pm]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |over.]
[music |l'amour est un oiseau rebelle]

I don't think I can go on anymore.

I fancifully imagine walking into the lake at midnight in the park. I have heard that drowning is peaceful. I imagine myself, a sad Ophelia in the water, my mascara on my cheeks.

Has anyone else ever felt this way? My tears are like drops of mercury, like poisoned jewels.

"The angels keep their ancient places;
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing."


The days are drawing to an end.
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...the words of mercury are harsh after the songs of apollo... [Mar. 25th, 2004|06:41 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |pained]
[music |l'italiana in algeri]

I have not written in my journal for a very long time. I have been writing in my paper journal. It's a moleskin notebook that my Aunt Bessie gave me last year, and it's filled with my notes and photographs and drawings. It's very dear to me. I once read an article that suggested that those who keeps journal are more likely to be unhappy. I feel maybe this is true. The journal allows me to become introspective, to wallow and revel in my own sorrow. But sorrow is beautiful. I believe it was that glorified circus performer Oscar Wilde who said that where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Of course it took the man time in prison to be able to think this seriously. And recently I have come to agree with him. I have been very pained lately. And my pain has been holy, not only because it has elevated me to a higher place from which to view myself; but in the very literal sense. I have not been to church since I was a little girl, but these past few days have found me visiting an old church close by very often. I know now how the monks felt, and how beautiful the solitude in a place of worship truly is. The church is mostly empty ever day, which is a pity and yet a blessing for me. In the silence between the stone walls and the crumbling pews I can think, and weep, and find myself. It is sad that others don't know this and can't share in it, though.

You may be wondering two things: how do I have the time to do this, and what is the cause of my pain? The two are related. The term is more or less over, which brings me relief from my studies, but more importantly, my friend Isobel, whom I spent the majority of my time with previously, has left. She has gone to Ibiza with her boyfriend Stephen. Not the time of year for it, I know, but Stephen is the kind of boy that must experience everything common and vulgar at least once. I am alone now, and it hurts. She did not even as much as write me a note goodbye. No, she seemed to feel that a simple text message was enough. I thought that we were more important to each other than that. But now she has gone for four days, and in that time I have come to know the sorrow that Wilde spoke of. And the truth in religion too. As the Old Testament says - love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave. Perhaps this is my pain. I know that, at some point, all artists must feel pain.

It is, then, into my art that I will pour my sorrow. I plan to go back and revise my work. While the major relationship continues to be that between the monk and the boy, I will add a side story if you will.. that of the boy and his best friend. They are devoted to each other, the kind of love that you see between Apollo and Hyacinthus, Achilles and Patroclus, Damon and Phyntias, Iphis and Ianthe... anyway, eventually his best friend will be lost during a hunt, and the boy will think he is dead. Eventually it will turn out that he has just run off with the wicked lord who owns the land that the monks subsist on, and the boy will learn never to love again. He will learn that love is corrupt therefore not only from the old monk, but from his best friend. It will be the perfect lead for the tragic ending of my work. I have decided that the boy will set the monk's room on fire and kill him this way. But it will only be after he has learned that his best friend has died in a fire in the Crusades. He will burn his two only loves up in flames! I hope to finish this by some time next week. My schedule is very busy - I plan to go visit my Aunt Bessie, and also to finish embroidering my new bookmark.

To give you just a taste of the story though, here is a small scene from it in which the boy and his best friend are working in the vegetable garden. I have not thought of names for them as yet, and so they are represented only by letters.

R gazed into the sun.Collapse )

If anyone is willing to offer some feedback, it would be much appreciated. Thank you. So far, I have written over 15,000 words.

I am going to go to the church again now. However I've allowed myself a moment's fun and filled out some livejournal memes.Collapse )

That is all for today. I have to perservere, but I won't lie, it's very hard.

How may I recover, being one so hurt?
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A nearly wasted evening [Jan. 31st, 2004|10:28 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |apatheticapathetic]
[music |l'elisir d'amore]

Last night likeawinter and I decided not to stay in and read Keats and try different kinds of herbal tea like we usually do on a Friday night (at least when she isn't with her boyfriend Stephen). We wanted to try something different. We decided to go to the Union instead. I don't really like to go out, as I find most of my peers very annoying and juvenile. I often stand there at the bar getting pushed around and having vile drinks spilled on me, thinking about Aquinas instead or how I could be at home snuggled in a big woolly cardigan reading Frodo/Sam slash. But since Stephen insisted that Isobel go out, I couldn't do anything but go with too.

I wore my new striped shirt from Topshop. I was positive that I would be the trendiest person there, but it seems like everybody has the exact same striped shirt. Everyone also had my new haircut, and my boxer-like trainers. I was really annoyed. At least only three people had the military jacket I purchased from Swear, however. Also, I looked splendid with little pink hearts painted on my cheeks. However, since I don't usually dress like that - you could almost say I'm very old fashioned - I don't think I will do it again. It seems like everybody just wears the same things! And I think trainers are ugly for the most part.

I didn't enjoy the evening very much. I sat in the corner next to the big windows that have the view of the London Eye and drew horses in my notepad. I started thinking about my grand work - the novel I am writing - and which horses the characters have. My story is set in a medieval monastery. It tells how a young fourteen year old boy (whose name I haven't decided upon yet) is sent there by his father to escape a spreading sickness. They are very poor and the father can not afford to bribe the Abbot in a way that would usually gain entrance to such a monastery, but a long while back the father had built him a beautiful set of stables and so he was owed a favour, if you will. When the boy arrives he is quickly taken under the wing of a very old and sick monk. But it turns out that the monk does not have the boy's best intentions in mind - while he is willing to teach him many things, he is also a paedophile. He begins to rape the boy. At first the boy is very upset (I am having a lot of trouble writing this chapter, actually) but soon he begins to love the old monk. When the old monk realises that the boy loves him, he burns the palms of his hands so as not to be able to feel anymore. You see, in a way he realises that it is wrong to sexually abuse the boy, but it is more wrong to emotionally abuse him. Finally, the boy kills the old monk out of a misunderstanding. I haven't really cleared up what this will be yet, but I am positive that it will prove ultimately tragic and very beautiful.

I decided that the boy would have his own horse and he would also fall in love, so to say, with a horse already at the stables. The horse he has is actually really just a pony, but the horse he falls in love with is a beautiful stallion called Hermes. His own pony is called Philip, after my horse Philip.

I drew a lot of pictures of Philip and Hermes while Isobel was molested by her boyfriend who cries all the time. She was very drunk and I have to say, I lost some respect for her. I don't like the behaviour of most students. But the people I saw there inspired me very much, I think I shall model the commoners and peasants in my story on them. I hate to say it, but most people are very common.

What are your opinions on Oscar Wilde? I like everything Victorian, but he seems to have been too much of a showman, really.

- Cornelia.

Oh, and verte, I'm at KCL, and while medieval studies aren't part of my course, I've been allowed to do some 'private', university sanctioned study on the side.
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Five questions from my best friend likeawinter, who knows all the answers already! [Jan. 30th, 2004|09:41 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |happyhappy]
[music |teardrop (massive attack)]

1.) Who is your favourite writer and why?
It is definitely Shakespeare. Everything he writes is just so beautiful. I've been reading Shakespeare I was nine years old. I've also written Hamlet and Measure for Measure fanfiction. It just always seemed so right to me. Shakespeare has written about every conceivable human situation, weakness and quality. I remember visiting his house in Stratford-upon-Avon and laying my ear to the floorboards and just crying. It really felt like I could feel him speaking to me and holding me. He is such a big part of my life. Since I've just discovered my talent for acting, I would dearly love to play Ophelia some day.

2.) Where in the world would you most like to visit (that you haven't already)?
China. I think their culture is so interesting and fascinating! After I read Wild Swans and The Kitchen God's Wife I often regret not being born there so I could experience it for myself. Sometimes I feel really Chinese - I can't explain it. It's probably their beautiful rituals and clothes.

3.) If you had to become fluent in another language, which would you choose to study?
Medieval French. Although I have been privately studying this and Old English privately. As well as having some grasp of Latin, of course.

4.) What is your middle name?
Eleanor. After my father's sister.

5.) What are your feelings about life on other planets?
I think it's stupid. People just like aliens because they're boring and don't have any imagination. That's why they like robots too.
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A Little About Myself [Jan. 30th, 2004|07:11 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |hopefulhopeful]
[music |dove sono]

An introduction is probably in order, so...

I'm Cornelia, I am nineteen, and I am currently studying in London at one of the colleges here. I'm reading Classics, which has always been my dream and my passion.

I was named Cornelia after my mother's best friend who died from leukaemia when she was sixteen. Unfortunately, my name is now associated with Buffy, but it pleases me to imagine that I carry on the legacy of someone so loved, nonetheless.

I find it difficult to sum myself up in just a few phrases, especially in what seems to be a public forum. How can you give anyone a complete sense of who you are in just a few words? My interests probably paint the best picture - I like anything old and mysterious, and of course, anything beautiful. At the moment I am studying medieval texts and monasteries. I love the idea of old monks - shut away at their desks in the darkness - intent on producing such delicate letters and images, faithfully adorning the pages upon which what they so fervently believed in was written, ignoring all things worldly and tempting. Sometimes I feel just the same, trapped up in my own little world of what I love. I don't think that this is a bad way to be.

I have few friends but they are dear to me. I'll write more about them in this journal as time goes by. I may even try and get a few of them to acquire journals of their own. (Hi, Isobel!)

As for everything else, I like what most girls like. The colour pink, riding my horse, shoe shopping, reading hobbit slash (lol), and going out now and then to the university bars.

I'm also a terrible insomniac, so it won't be unusual for you to see me still awake at seven am, either revising, reading or online.

Well! It is a pleasure to (properly) meet you all.

- Cornelia.

edit: And I've noticed the five questions game - wherein people ask you five questions and you answer them. Are any of my new friends interested in doing this? I'd love to, if I could ask you five questions in return.
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first time [Jan. 30th, 2004|06:40 am]
the liquid dew of youth.
[mood |curiouscurious]
[music |le nozze di figaro]

I have never had an online journal before. I was inspired to get this by Adrienne.

It's public for now, but we'll see how it goes.

- Cornelia.
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