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So, what is this supposed to be, exactly? A short story of my life? A look into my soul? How strange that this silent website could provide so much for me. Creative juices to start my motor. Ink for my pen. There is something about this, something that carries the spark of life, which jumps from the screen and into our hearts. My eyes are fogging over as these words pour out like water. Which literary genius cast this artful spell? Read these words, these thoughts, these magic musings, and you shall discover who I truely am; the silver lining inside.
I composed this entry as I went along today, saving words and burbles of thought in my head. Scarily enough, my creative juices were clogged up this morning, as thoughts of social life got in the way. This always seems to get the best of people; worries of love, worries of the impression one has made upon their friends. Strange how, something which seems so effortless, is so fragile. Writing, and all art for that matter, is a crystal flow. Do not drop it; only drink from it, and produce the creative spinnings that shed light upon this world.
It was dark in the bathroom as I bathed this evening, a single candle lit on the counter, wafting jasmine on the stale air of my house. That was all the light I had, save a small night light. I frowned as I examined my knees under the clear water. Sure, they were distorted by the surface, but that was beside the point. The kneecap is off slightly to the side on both legs, the cup curving in so my knees touch without bidding. I once looked at myself naked in a mirror, and realized how freakish I had become.
It's incredible how in-efficiant people have become. My needs might not amount to anything in your eyes, but deliberatly slowing down your pace and stopping for dessert when you are already fat is inexcusable. You take away my pride on purpose. I could curse my thoughts to you until your hair turned grey, but self-control, infidently superior to yours, holds these outbursts back. You blame feelings you cannot explain or compare with to something that everyone else says, and you treat my anger like it is nothing. How dare you judge me on the steryo-typical scale of my age generation.
So I sat there, divided from the street by a single flimsy iron fence, sipping ice water and watching bimbos catter on their cell phones and tourists trying to blend in despite their ten-fold shopping bags from Prada. I almost felt as if I was in Paris. sitting alone, people-watching. My legs were crossed, the long skirt hiding the black brace I wore on my right leg. I stared up at the azure sky, blue despite it being in the middle of a city, and Chicago was that city. Here is where I will make myself known to the world.
A friend called me today while I walked around in my bra, drinking juice to pre-occupy myself as I spun an artful tale of dragons for my buddie. I have not finished; the ending is sloppy, and the other story is missing a chunk from the beginning. Not a lot gone wrong, but far from acceptable. The call brightened my mood considerably, and we chattered for fifteen minutes about a new gathering of friends. But that is far away from today, and not only must I enter these words, but finish my stories as well.
I accompanied my friend to a football game this evening, a shoddy match up between two schools. Nobody won, and we spent our time dancing around the stands and yelling at the numbers 35 and 31. One of them is her boyfriend, and the other is a moron who owes me cash. I brought my computer, hoping to finish my stories, but hardly got anything done. Somewhere along the lines of hyper-weirdness, I discovered Nightwish. A gothic band, none the less, but oprah, and slightly shaky on the vocals. I feel that I could draw sufficiant insparation from it.
Obligations are so burdensome. But we must live with them. No matter how much we hate them, they are promises, promises that need to be kept. They are goals, goals that must be met. They're the work piling up in the dusty corners of our minds, where light does not shine; but we know they're back there, and they gnaw at our necks like the trivial annoyances they are. And yet, they're not trivial. They are more important than you could ever imagine. So that is why I have lines under my eyes and clenched fists in my stomach.
I was off again checking out this advancedanime site a friend referred to me. The pictures were beautiful and inspiring, but something was amiss in the small logged comment boxes. A trend had grown over the last few pictures I viewed, with the same angsty reviewer logging the same angsty comments. A man who displayed and bragged of his 'empty life' in all the pictures plagued the area, a man who couldn't even review the photo itself without tying an aspect of it back to himself. What a whipping I would have given him if I was a member.....
Should I draft a chapter progress, or just follow where the novel takes me? Should I stop at the end of the introduction, at the end of the body, and at the start of the climax? I have the conflict, the characters, and the idea. Yes, I am a teen, and yes, this is a novel project. I also know what you are thinking as you read this. How I will fail and how I am not serious about it. Bet you didn't know; I've done novel intros and small books since second grade. This time, I will not fail.
They say fear shouldn't be a trait of mine. So perhaps I should call this feeling apprehensiveness. I start a new program of mine, a writing program, but it shouldn't be any different from the others, as I tend to change so often. I am just hoping I can get through it. Write a short story over the weekend. Submit it when finished and revised. Is that so hard? I plan to get into the hall of fame at Stone Soup. That can be my weekend goal. I have improved as evidence from a latest story. Will I succeed?
Today I attend church. I have issues with the Presbyterian religion; issues and questions. I know I shouldn't think like that, but in today's world, too many people don't think for themselves. I should have been raised to trust this form of worship, but every time I open the Bible, I face chains and a cage. And that is my worst fear. How am I supposed to explore the world if the looming threat of hell is in my face? I even wonder how I am supposed to have any fun. Is He really up there? Is all this true?
Somehow I feel I should be farther. Farther ahead in life. I can do better; potential lurks around me like vapor. Every time I write, I feel as though a dam is looming near the surface of my writing style, a dam, when broken, will flood me with new ideas and inspiration. But I cannot break it. I feel as though I need teaching, but there are no classes for me in this small Indiana town. So here I am, walking down this dark road, with no lights coming from the warm buildings, and not really knowing where I'm going.
The light was golden, coming from the rising sun like dust. The clouds that had hidden so well in the night's shadows were being exposed and illuminated. Mist hung softly over the grass, dew sparkled on every blade. The sprinklers were discharging water vapor, and as they hissed over the lawn, tiny droplets caught in the light. I saw it all from the bus window as we made our way across town. You know, I may complain about having to rise early, but nothing could compare to lost sleep when you can see soft yellow light dance across a creek.
I had sudden visions of grandeur for my friend's little club today, during my frequent random musings. We call our society "The Legion of Ideyuts", with the fourth word purposely spelled incorrectly. We will create a website, initiate more members, spread our weird fingers across America. Each town will have an Ideyut Captain, and to become a member, a long, in-depth web cam interview is required. Every year, on March 9th, we will have the national Ideyut convention here at our home town. We will have diffferent festivals on each of the Ideyut's birthdays. I should speak to my friends.
The smell of burning leaves on the wind drove away all the social occurrences of today and put my main writing goals first. I hunkered down into the bus seat, propped my horrible problematic knees up, and stared out through the murky glass. Fall is upon the world. The trees, once dark green and drenched in sun, have now begun to wear down their emerals coats and reveal a much preferred pattern of gold, red, and yellow. Almost as if something is scraping away at the green casing, and exposing true potential beneath. If only that would happen to me...
Acid. It is all just acid, coiling and burning inside of me. Writing is my only escape from the pain I am destined to feel with this emotion. I want to curl up inside myself and never go outside again. I need to vent. It is all gone from me; all my values, and only as I write this now do I feel complete. I dreamed of it, but I did not think it would happen. I need my friends. I completely disregarded the rules, but fate is a cruel mistress. What is a girl who cannot love to do?
Ack. How to begin? How to begin this stupid story? No, wait, it's not stupid....JUST FRUSTRATING!!! I feel like tearing the pages in half. I need to start with a description of the moonlight and the mist. It is in first-person, the story is, but never have I found the opening description, common in my stories, so difficult. Oh, Ast, I need to be alone. Doubt is coiling inside of me, but it is so miniscule compared to my other worries. I must write , but I cannot. I am not sure if this is making any sense to you anymore.
We went on a hike today, in a dried up wood littered with poison ivy. The dirt trail that usually followed a creek was practically lost under rotting brown leaves, and the creek itself had dried out in some spots. Where there was water, it was so shallow it was crystal clear, allowing us to see straight toward the bottom. There were few minnows, but many rocks had been exposed, allowing us to cross the stream from trail to trail. The day was sunny, perfectly sunny, in fact, and the light streamed down the trough the leaves and dappled our path.
Sometimes I just want to have my emotions drained from my body like water. No more feelings to cause me pain and suffering any more. Because of these accursed feelings, I am loose. Barely hanging on by a thread. The only time I feel whole is at night, or when I'm writing. I can't think anymore without acid rising in my stomach. Why can't I just lock myself in the corner of my house? Because it's cowardly, that's why. I must live with this, or face shame. And the only other choice is death; a choice sounding pretty good right now.
I like it. I like it a lot. No, it is not a dog, but this little....novel I am working on. First person, dark, you know the story. But I like it. And this is big for me, as I truly believe that I have the toughest revision system on the planet. The piece actually DREW ME IN. Made me pay attention. Maybe it will get in print. Maybe I'll have to find an agent before it gets published. Whatever. I just need to have the aptitude to work harder on it. Adn I need a title. Books need titles.
I have so much crap bottled up inside, that it's making me lose my self image and my contact. I have to rely on things like anime just to keep my grip on the spiritual side of me. I don't even see myself in my mind's eye anymore. Writing has been preserved, thank Ast, but I do not feel the currents of the souls as easily anymore. I need to vent, but those chains hold me back once again. I need my friends. But the chains make me push them away, and all the while, slowly dissolving into my eyes.
Reality is grim. I faced the truth under the eye of my friend, who so artfully made me see. I experienced emotions unburdened when I shed my cloak of lies and fake promises, but when an ounce of that anxiety appeared within me, I immediately retreated to the depths of safety and hope. But as Dana says, "Hope is the denial of reality." I know what I must do; something that will stop the pain as soon as it's over. But I cannot do it. Something holds me back inside. Something is saying no. And I do not like it...
I felt strange today. Separate from others, in my own little world. I did not feel as though I was witty enough. ISTEP is finally over--with the celebration of cookies and Capri-Sun at the end of school. Yes, the torture has finally ended, but, unfortunately, along the zero homework blessing. I suppose somehow we will manage; though I have not completed my writing for today. I do not hink I should go back and revise earlier chapters. I found out that they are moral demeaning, and was the downfall of all the other "Book Ideas" in the past.
The. Knee. Hurts. That accursed doctor's arthritis medicine hasn't done squat, so now I'm sitting here with four dozen hot pads on my knee. AND IT'S NOT HELPING. Not only is it aching, but there're strange red marks appearing around it. I considered cutting the kneecap out with my mom's good kitchen knife, but that would cause extreme pain and stains on the carpet. So maybe I should chill out. Maybe I should drink some tea and meditate. Maybe I should take some corn-cob holders, massacre everyone who looks at me, and construct a belt from their torn out kidneys.
I have no snow on the ground, so I cannot describe it. I cannot go on what I remember from last year, because we had no snow at all. So how will I open a story with a description of snow if I do not even know what snow looks like!?!?? Would the blessed Google Brothers host pictures of snow? Who even photographs snow nowadays? Should I force my parents to take me up to Greenland? Maybe I should just stare for hours on end at my mother's good crystal and try to envision what that white powder looks like.
Aha, packed schedule for the week. I had put everything on the fact that a half-day would occur tomorrow, but the deletion of the event has packed my already throbbing agenda to bust. Somehow i might have time to do my 100 words, but if I don't, please don't yell. I have to finish a story, write a chapter, create a title, attend a fooball game, be present at a Japanese seminar, go to an appointment, and have lunch with a friend. And that doesn't include homework or the essay due. Don't you just love the school year after ISTEP?
Guess What? I'M INSANE! I finally snapped after school after a bought of losing my purse and being overload with obligations. I stormed to my room and duck taped my door shut, then exploded after they wouldn't take me to the football game. It would've helped my temper, but, being the disrespectful jackasses they are, my parents refused to take me. Now, I am happily living here inside my head, my writing style being preserved, and meanwhile, the parents are searching for a shrink. Being psycho actually could be fun, seeing the looks on their faces when I stun them.
I have outlined my chapters, and gotten a better understanding of the body of my novel. I sometimes wonder whether I know the main character, Evadne, well enough. A writer's magazine I own has a full article on outlining characters, but it only describes the basics of the knowledge; knowledge I already possess. Could it be that I am actually doing this correctly? If so, I will be so amazed that I might reward myself now and then. Is the taste of self-esteem in my mouth? Isure hope not; as that delightful fizzy feeling might turn flat into self- absorption.
It is officially fall. I noticed it as I walked home from my bus stop, even though Linkin Park was screaming in my ears. A delightful smell patrolled the air, a smell that I've only experienced once, maybe twice in my lifetime. It came because the ground was warm, but the air was crisp, and it sang of leaves and gold and change. As I looked around, the trees were no longer green and the lawns no longer lush. they had dried into straw, and the trees had crimson, amber, and brown coats. I must get myself some apple cider...
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