"I am not an angel," I asserted; "and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself". ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Which ever self is present at any particular moment. This one is growing out her hair and has a hell of a sinus headache.
I'm fascinated by how we come to believe what we do about ourselves, who and what we choose to listen to. Jane Eyre knew her worth and wouldn't be persuaded from it, not by an oppressive childhood, a deceitful lover, the false salvation of a loveless marriage. She might be no more than a character in a story, but I love her.
