the idea of someone pinning me against the wall of a massive dark castle built in the 1700s with lace curtains and a silver lined dagger pointed to my throat makes me happier than anything else. might start wearing lockets with my dear ones' pictures in them, go stargazing at the beach, and oh the urge of running away into the woods excites me to such a level that I start writing about them, penning all my desires into words. i keep thinking of sitting under willow trees reading until I fall asleep with my head on someone's shoulder. sharing my favourite books and songs with others so that they can dig into my soul, without me seeming vulnerable. finding dusty roses in the pages of a book I just started reading which could've been left by another stranger connected to that book, dancing in the dark, kissing in the rain, I could name a thousand more poetic romances but I'm afraid I might sound too clichè and the fact that I already exaggerate everything just makes it worse. oh how I wish I was born in the 1800s or maybe the 1700s because I've started romanticising the life of people who lived hundreds of years before me, daydreaming about slowly dying in someone's arms while they're singing to me.
