:: desert-air sweetness-wasting ::

I think I'm a flower born to blush unseen. my thoughts:

so of course everybody loves literature's secondary couples.

jane & bingley. jack & emily rennells. sir andrew & suzanne.
   I mean, we're so happy for harriet and robert, glad that sharifah gets the physician's son -- "why shouldn't she want the best?" but it's in a rather patronizing oh-you-married-a-doctor-how-nice sort of way.
   because seriously. who ever said, "one day my @richardcarstone will come for me #happilyeverafter" or "I have a whole pinterest board dedicated to my future wedding to traddles!" -- no. everyone sees themselves as the intelligent, subtle, still-waters-run-deep main character, whose thrilling and wonderful personality only shows through when sarah's been attacked by a bow street runner and sir tristram's got to -- well, you know. we like ludovic, but we're not riding ventre à terre to get him.

the sad thing is, somebody has to be those people. somebody has to be the plain background -- the plain, lesser, unassuming and simultaneously clueless secondaries.

diana don't know she ain't got what anne got. we People In The Know slightly pity her: she's satisfied with fred. the Jealous of Gilbert know better.

in the great story of life, though, who then are the lucy westenras and arthur holmwoods? if you don't know you're a second (and seconds never do), how will I know whom I'm destined to be: mina? or jane fairfax?

AND WHAT IF SCARLETT STEALS MY FRANK???