I sometimes wish for something more intimate more personal. A little secret society perhaps, of girls with dreams in their heads and stories in their hearts. We would share pictures and mementos, and lines written on little pieces of paper. We would write letters to each other by moonlight, or under an apple tree. We would make little videos of silly things and whispered fairy tales. We would have secret names, and send each other books and feathers and sea glass. We would create magic spells, and maybe consort with the fairies (if they were so inclined to be consorted with). Distance wouldn’t matter because we would have words and pictures and secrets binding us. Like a little string tied in a bow around your finger to remind you that you are not alone.
“And I flash back to a snippet from school, a line from a poem or a science book, I can’t remember which: ‘There are certain prehistoric things that swim beyond extinction’.”—Karen Russell (via napoleoncomplex)
J’ai un secret collé dans la gorge. Il m’empêche de respirer. Mon souffle, saccadé et court, est étourdissant à mes oreilles. Il ne faut pas qu’ils l’entendent, il ne faut pas le murmurer. Il goûte amer, il goûte sucré, mais jamais vous ne l’entendrai.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to talk as much. It’s nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one’s heart, like treasures. I don’t like to have them laughed at or wondered over.”—Anne of Green Gables | L.M. Montgomery (via lungsattachedbywires)