No sweetheart. Sadness is not your salvation.

Despite what you’ve heard, seen or read, sadness is not beautiful. No one will admire you for your suffering. No one even acknowledges the millions of innocents being massacred in war torn environments. They are entirely oblivious to your silent struggle. The world continues to rotate regardless of your stillness. You are great but so was Gatsby. He met a end despite his magnanimity.

I do not want you to become complacent with a tragic end. You do not have to be a literary hero. We have surpassed the stoic reign of the Spartans. You do not have to prove some selfless strength of resilience and tenacity. I’ve often likened you to Sylvia Plath.  Your profound poetic powress and alternate thinking quite closely resemble Plath. You are your own troubled visionary . I attest to that. You deserve to go with an intricate array of ferocious fireworks. You are larger than life. Much too abundant to cease your mortality roasting to an ash on an oven tray.

I write this not with strident raucousness. Sometimes I get lost in a prophecy of your potential. I can see the colossal heights to which you could climb but you’ve already clipped your ambitious wings.  Chin up love, the will grow. Tenaciously and geared with immune scar tissue. I can smell the scent of success clinging adamantly to your skin. I can taste the delicacy of pride on my tongue as I view your possible accomplishments in my mind’s eye. Then I am anchored back to the present and your expression is contorted into a questioning mark of befuddlement. Oh I wish I could tazer your temporarily crippled senses. Blink back the glaze of melancholy. It’s time to adapt to a new American Dream.

I adore you exactly as you are. I admire you for all that you have acquired.  Heck I even have an affection for Jane, your slightly senile other – self.

It’s okay to feel like the world is sucking you dry of purpose. It’s okay to want to be an instrument in Clary and Jace’s mortal magnetism. It’s okay to want curl up in a comfortable cabin in a harbor- but sweetie, ships were not made to sink in the solace of safety. So Sail. Seek India even if you do end up unintentionally discovering a new continent.  You’re destined for magical makings, Columbus.  You are a tempest. Show the ocean what a storm you are.

Paint that smile one with a stick of vibrant lip colour. Wear the outfit that you know will make him want to eat his heart out. Speaking of eating, devour the damn cheesecake.
You cannot sacrifice your life for the loss of a boy and opportunity too meek to meet your giant expectations. Your spirituality sings so solemnly.  Be the bright,  burning ball of start dust you are on sing-star. Right now, breathe.  Deep, delicious gulps of satisfying O2. Be voracious. The future is yours to feast upon.

Your best friend (and biggest fan)
_Quixotic Novelist

Brows bending into banality

Tonight I go to bed a little less whole than I did yesterday. Tomorrow I will wake with a realization for today was the first time that my eyebrows were shaped.

Do not re read the above. Yes, I have dedicated a heartfelt post to the diminishing of my eyebrows.  Please continue forth,  this serves as an obituary for my beloved brows. ( Fear not they do remain but just barely)

My virgin eyebrows have never been overtly boisterous nor were they slim and starved. A few summers ago they became the object of an inside joke among my  colleagues. That asymmetrical pair of a constellation of tiny specks of hair held so many mysteries and memories.

I do a double take every time I glimpse my reflection.  My features seem aggrandized, augmented, aciculated … If this is the effect of a non-english speaking beautician on me then how will other novelty experiences affect me? How will I face myself after I’ve endured other firsts? Will I bear grand ans great changes after every endeavor? 

I know that this is frivolous and I’ve probably consumed a few minutes of your life that would be better put to other activies rather than discussion of my eyebrows-or lack thereof. True, that other than my family and best friends, hardly anyone will pick up on this subtly significant change. Yet for me this is going to take some getting used to. I don’t like the way these curves of certainty shoot up in . I don’t like it in the least and I miss my bushy brows. Now I just feel like I’ve joined the ranks of conformity. I’m just another girl with pencil perfect eyebrows.

To be frank I’d prefer being Frida Kahlo (uhh, on second thought there are enough McDonalds around without me supporting their sign on my visage)

_Quixotic Novelist

(If curiosity prompts, and I’ll bet my brows that at least one person has wondered this, on a scale of Cara Delevinge to a Sharpie strip, I’d say I’m about a Lily Collins)