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Home Individuality We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it.

IndividualityIt's up to meLife Experiences

We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it.

Polly, January 31, 2013

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Tags : Ralph Waldo Emerson

The bitterest tragic element in life is the belief in a brute Fate or Destiny.

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Light is the first of painters. There is no object so foul that intense light will not make it beautiful.

Polly

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Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.

Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Science is for those who learn; poetry, for those who know

Science is for those who learn; poetry, for those who know

Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry.

Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.

The real opportunity for success lies within the person and not in the job.

The real opportunity for success lies within the person and not in the job.

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