my beauty, my talent or my fascinating, independent wit.
I am the girl who dreamed I was her;
then one day I saw my reflection,
and it was harriet smith.
Perhaps that’s who we all are, girls? Most of us, anyway. Not that I do not see the way you really are something.
I am, you are, we are all
as bright as strawberries and as sweet as a fresh summer breeze
when the sky is blue.
But nevertheless, we are not lizzy bennet.
I read it on pinterst – “lizzy was probably the most attractive woman in British literature.”*
So are all the other heroines in everything, and everywhere that stand strong, independent, beautiful, smart, tall, brave,
extraordinary.
Even their faults and flaws are attractive. Who doesn’t want to be feisty and stubborn?
We, however, are just us.
And we must humbly and therefore bravely
take up and accept the invisibility that is and will always be with and around all we do and what we are.
But how is it possible to do this, and smile?
The lizzy bennets of the world – they are special.
And the harriet smiths, the mary bennets, the sickly daughters of lady de bourgh- they are nothings, and no one notices.
The pain we feel, the blood we spill,
If not illuminated by
beauty and talent and fascinating independent wit
is, in the eyes of the average reader, not even considered.
I suppose that’s why I always notice the wallflowers and sidelines in literature.
Because in those whose stories are invisible,
I see myself.
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[note: I am not recommending this website (which I do not read), I am merely referencing the comic).
