virginia woolf

crazed and brilliant locked up in a room she couldn't call her own, tied down to a man who loved a woman he didn't know. trying desperately to clean up her mistakes and keep her sane. to convince her of female responsibilities. she would run, pitter patter, down the corridor outside to the river, slip rocks in her pockets and try to escape the hours. he would pull her out. confused about her gender longing to be unchained as a male, writing furiously cigarette in mouth puffing her way to some sort of undefined rendition of the natural order. refusing to be a renaissance woman, or a woman of any century, self-absorped genius. she lay down her pen in that quiet little room and obeyed the voices, one last time. drowned in a moment of being.