I have an old soul
My soul is the soul that once danced with the gypsy nomads, laughing with no care but to live passionately and love freely. It is the soul that has been touched by the good Victorian lady, a love of all things gilded, glamorous and dark. The gothic ink of the artist, poe, a fuel for the macabre fantasies of a young girl living the facade of a well-leashed house cat. My soul is the soul of the daughter who wanted to rebel. As the 20s roared and Gatsby reveled in frivolity, my soul was the soul of a girl who yearned to be a woman. To dance and to love Wildly. To be somebody ride or die. Somebody's Bonnie to Clyde. My soul is the soul that began as a force of liberation, rebirthing perpetually into something utterly oppressed.
In this life, I feel the pull to things of old books that have been loved time and time again. Mirrors plated in silver and antique. I look at my reflection through my gold vintage glasses and try hard to see that old soul again. And in this life, this old soul relives history ten fold, in the body of a girl in the 21st century, on the leash of the family that raised her.