Does anyone else ever think of the things they do in terms of what a biographer might say of them someday?That's what goes on in my head. Every journal entry I write, every letter I write, every new person I meet, I have a silly little thought that nags at the back of my head: "How might someone write this in a biography of myself?" Rather amusing, isn't it? It is quaint, because it came out of my head. It is vain (or at least sounds so) because it is working off the idea that anyone might write a biography about me one day. (And as we all know, biographies are about famous people. :D) But my poor Rachel-mind will wander and bump into oddly quaint little thoughts that think themselves without permission. I certainly never authorize such things. Musing on my imaginary biography is one of those brain-ramblings I cannot avoid. Please assure me I'm not a sad, strange little girl, but that your brain takes you on tangents now and then? I'd feel marvelously reassured...
As it is, I never want to get to the sort of superior height Owl of the Hundred-Acre Wood enjoys: [always being right and smart. What a bore!]
- "It's just the sort of place," he explained, "for an Ambush."
- "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?"
- "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?"
- "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need -"
- "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise."
- "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh.
- Ciao everyone! :) ~Rachel