I Believe That A Morning Should Never Describe A Day. Of Course, I Don’t Believe Mornings Listen To

An Ode to Rays of Sun

Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight

seep through every crack, every seam

invading every crevice, every nook

until there is no space for night.

A million threads,

golden as fresh honey,

bright as a thousand suns,

tether me to the sky.

The shine of silk or velvet,

the beauty of a field of dandelions,

the yellow light,

sends a haze over everything,

obscuring all that is not good.

The morning is acissmus,

the night, a palimpsest.

Until you see the stars.

Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.

I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.

How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?

Dear June, please be good to me.

This very morning, my history professor picked up the book I was reading, looked me in the eye, and said “Don’t read Wuthering Heights.” He then proceeded to walk away and continue class.

Photo booth photos shared by Alice Oseman

Hmmm maybe not Mr. Elton, but Mr. Knightley?

This very morning, my history professor picked up the book I was reading, looked me in the eye, and said “Don’t read Wuthering Heights.” He then proceeded to walk away and continue class.

I haven’t finished Emma yet, but I have a theory. I’ve had this theory ever since we first saw Emma, Harriet, and Mr. Elton in a room together, but I’m just sharing it now. I think Mr. Elton might like Emma and not Harriet? No, I’m nearly positive. I guess we’ll see?

This very morning, my history professor picked up the book I was reading, looked me in the eye, and said “Don’t read Wuthering Heights.” He then proceeded to walk away and continue class.