We're back with book three guys! Yay, I love eclipse because we get more smexy Jasper time in the move, and the Major isn't that bad. ^-^ Anyway! Thanks for sticking around, and on with the Prologue!
~Prologue~ "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn the really the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black, Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads to way, I doubted if I should ever come back, I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence; Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And it has made all the difference." Written by Robert Frost in 1916, written in the author's point of view, about coming upon two choices, two decisions in life, and choosing between them. I never thought on decisions, that would effect my life to the extent they did, being with Jasper, interacting with Bella, just being around the supernatural world, the decisions were getting harder, and easier. Between all the secrets, that it turns out, Sheryl was keeping for the coven, Jennifer leaving, and Paul practically ignoring my existence since I was hospitalized, almost everything in my life has unraveled itself, making it easier to decided on what I want, how I want to live. I'm practically living with Jasper, either in the treehome we have, or at the Cullen's house, slowly but surely, my scars are fading, still rather prominent, and causing me to be insecure, but it seems that Jasper has made it a daily ritual of kissing each one, every morning. Things could not be better, but things could start to get worst, and worst, and that's what I am afraid of. What if things go wrong again? What if everything just turns to dust? It feels like everything I touch, turns to dust.
Aw, poor little Lily! I LOVE this poem by Robert Frost. Anyway, I promise that I will try not to write this book as terrible as the last! Stick around though!
