ghostwriting.

a fictional princesses 1st diary entry

With the elusive nature of time, from hemmed stone-age hammers to prowling-natured barbarians, the sundae of society is much guiltily power and status. Many gentlemen and gentlewomen--who, in my sight don't even have the g in the gentle--relish in their fine sets of gowns and suits, unabashedly flaunting them whilst others much prance over their status. As for myself? Well... the word "princess" has me set unto a grimace, for it is no better than the braying of a donkey.

It is a known wonder to me, that much of the ton would consider me spoiled to the grit--a madwoman--and perhaps you, lifeless pages, consider so as well. But they don't know, and they shan't know; neither will ever you, for my words are considered folly, the fact lying in the matter that the proof is as elusive as the gemstones from the northern borders.

But never mind that, for it much befits me, a lady of much craze, to tell you as much: in my lands, the royals, instead of weaving fine silks, weave plans that leave the sun's disk clinging through mists of faint hopes. Unlike most, I do perceive, I do see--and endless a time have I seen uncle's face tipsy down with the mention of mumma and dad dear, and endless a time have I held in my mournful moans when aunt's hand much lingered over mamma's ceremonial crystalled dagger, and endless a time have I seen them hide, hide, hide.

I haven't let out a word, though. Not once. But it might as well swarm out of me with the tethering of time; for even Shakespeare's Caliban curses have no match for the angered passion that resides and cuts into my sense of sanity.

With every shiver of the garden daisies, do I mull over in rage of a reality that was left unsolved. But what am I, as a dainty princess, to do other than sit, watch, and wait?

Wait for the moment of the uprisings from the northern stars.

And the fire of the western winds,

And the drizzles from the eyesore moon,

And when such signs settle in dust, freeing time from the bounds of capture, will I rise.

And bloom I shall, scarring every snaked royal's memory till my name, Isolde Mareth Knight, will sheath the unsheathed and bid the unbidden.

The only pitying melody of such schemes is sworn patience--and the lack of allies, for within this casketed palace even the floor beds sink their very own rebellion. My will, though, shall guide me through better than the ablazing sun past these sullen tapestries and shadowful faces.

Signed with rebellion,

Isolde.