She felt such misery for she was living in a world dominated by name brands and superficiality. A world where celebrities where raved about in magazines and fame conquered. She sat with his book in her delicate hands. She read his book over and over again until she had memorized every line, every word; she was addicted to the profound truth to his words. She felt like she had been brought back to life, every nerve in her body felt alive. She asked herself countless times if this was love, for her heart was filled with deep happiness. She found herself thinking about him constantly. She wondered what kind of person he was, who did he love? Did he love the sound of rain falling gently on a tin roof while he slept? Did he admire the overwhelming beauty of a field of flowers? She wanted to know who he was. She wanted to embrace him and ponder matters of life itself with him and stare into his lips as he spoke. She dreams of running into his arms and gazing into his cavernous eyes. She knows this is without a question impossible but still she dreams. She dreams of being born in a different era, a different life.

My love infatuation with John Keats..