When the day of mourning is set, and the pallbearers stand tall, let it be known that UTS became the death of her. Of Emma. Not literally, of course, but rather, the metaphorical death of the person she used to be. Pre-University Emma.
This new Emma...I don't much like her. She doesn't laugh nearly enough, and what is worse, never at nothing imparticular. Far more often than I would like, she is completely creatively impotent. She can't write, she can't paint; her comebacks take too long, and are of questionable wit.
I've been mourning the old, effervescent, clever, silly, talkative, relatively good-temepered, quick-witted, happy Emma for some time now. I always hoped that she would find her way back...
But from death, as they say, comes rebirth; from destruction comes creation.
One can only hope it doesn't come to that to begin with.
This new Emma...I don't much like her. She doesn't laugh nearly enough, and what is worse, never at nothing imparticular. Far more often than I would like, she is completely creatively impotent. She can't write, she can't paint; her comebacks take too long, and are of questionable wit.
I've been mourning the old, effervescent, clever, silly, talkative, relatively good-temepered, quick-witted, happy Emma for some time now. I always hoped that she would find her way back...
But from death, as they say, comes rebirth; from destruction comes creation.
One can only hope it doesn't come to that to begin with.
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