Lo ra Phd quit student

[loralinaliu]

A winter in Richmond

Richmond, Winter — I. Flat White

Last year, I moved to London from a small city near Dublin.

While sitting beside a Queen Anne–style table with mosaic flowers, his fingers edged against mine. I lowered my head. The milk bubbles in my flat white were tenderly enriched with air.

I moved to his house by a casual invitation—if you could consider a plain sentence one. The foam’s structure crumbled, as did my sense.

Snowflakes dropped onto the plate, decorating our yard. He sifted sugar powder onto my over-baked toast.

I swallowed the topping of my toast; it was too sweet and bitter.

“Why don’t we go out? It’s snowing—the first time I’ve ever seen snow in London.”

The sky was dim, under a pall.

[loralinaliu]

So here is the final version of my The fate of Ophelia

V1:

Owl was baker‘s daughter, as they say.

Then who is the father of mine?

Father,brother,lover, in delirium.

Sentenced my sanity to a lie.

Pre- Chorus：

Court is a stage with curtains, behind the arras we read testimony.

What would you read in me, in rue, in my hair and his noble mind?

Chorus：

Promised, rescued me from the nunnery. But he laid daisies on my grave. Oh Saint Charity.

Prince of Melancholy lived in a Machiavellian world.

The epitaph reads Ophelia.

Collect rosemary on the rock, the cliffs, the sand.

Needle my garlands with poppy and violet.

Ophelia drowned in the creeks,

Do I? Do I?

Who pronounced my fate by?

Woman Insane.

The tragic pure Ophelia.

V2

Keep your virginity, name it honesty.

Ophelia archived as fantasy.

My prince lies in my lap, while he despise me.

He questioned my loyalty.

Pre- Chorus

Now mermaids dose me, on the surface my body floating.

You cross swords at my tombs, for power, for throne. The battle was never for me.

Chorus：

Promised, rescued me from the nunnery. But he laid daisies on my grave.

Oh Saint Charity. Oh Saint Charity.

Prince of Melancholy lived in a Machiavellian world. The epitaph reads Ophelia. Ophelia.

Bridge：

Universal grand tragic play—the masterpiece of the Everett.

The fate of Ophelia never ends; divine maid breeds greater sins.

Stratford-upon-Avon created me; Bankside’s stage casted me.

The story of Ophelia never ends; divine mind breeds rotten sins.

Chorus

Send me nettle, fennel, pansy for my name;

translate flowers into epitaphs of blame.

My ghost wandering the hall with pearl-gray shades,

witnessing him lift cup and drink the wine.

Collect lilies from the rock, the cliffs, the sand.

Needle our garlands with poppy and violet.

Ophelia drowned in the brook—do I? do I?

Who pronounced my fate by?

End

You all write of—“pure, tragic Ophelia.”

“Lover, sister, daughter”—Ophelia.

[loralinaliu]

This is a very bold trying to rewrite a song(even I just covered small parts of it). Everyone has their opinions on classical literature figure. Taylor Swift built her version of Ophelia.

I build my narratives of my past reading.

[loralinaliu]

I think it’s quite bold to rewrite The Fate of Ophelia (Even though I just try to cover a very short part.)

Everyone has rights to be a narrator and I am sure that for a classical figure in literature, there are ways to represent her while respecting her fate.