Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
My beginning comes from the end of a shy, closemouthed individual. She died as she entered middle school, exposed to unending scrutiny and a ceaseless shower of stinging words and harsh glares. Unable to live, she fell away and died one night as she cried into her pillow. She was buried without mark or ceremony, and was replaced with me.
I am a seventeen year old girl with strong conviction, an open mind, a love of literature, and a passion for being odd. I have no interest in the clothes I wear or the action of obtaining them, I don't give damn what people think of me, I enjoying being left to myself, and I am a good judge of people's character. (As of late I have adopted a habit of cursing, which I am kind of working to shed.) In short, I am what I was intended to be; me. And in doing so I have come to know the truest, most wonderful friends anyone could ever want. Their numbers are small, but their worth is immeasurable.
I have something of a nocturnal nature, so naturally I adore the nighttime and the sky that goes along with it. I'd be perfectly content to sleep the day away and roam the city at night with only the flickering streetlamps to guide my way, or stretch out on a hilltop etching the stars into my mind. And, as I'm sure you can tell, I love to write. Nothing would please me more than to know that somehow, in whatever minute way, my thoughts and ideas and words have touched somone else and brought forth any kind of emotional response. Because, in those rare moments, I feel as though I could connect with people. I feel that, if I put my fingers to the montior, and they to theirs, our fingertips would brush just slightly. The feeling that such knowledge brings could never be expressed in words.
On a different note, I hate it when I make stupid typos. But I do it. I'm sorry. So let it slide. Do I look like an illiterate to you?
My imaginary boyfriend, Nicholas, is the best imaginary boyfriend anyone could have. He gets me out of those nasty situations where the scenario unfolds thus: I stand alone, waiting for the next class. A group of guys laugh around the corner. One, looking aggravated, throws up his hands. After further discussion, one saunters up, his friends laughing behind him, and begins to lay on the cheesy pick-up lines. His friends are in hysterics. And after the classic so-do-you-have-a-boyfriend line, I smile curtly, tell him yes, and stare at him. Uncomfortable, he slinks away back to his friends and they all laugh at each other. This lovely figment of my imagination has been helping me protect my heart for over three years now. =3 I am patiently waiting for the day I will no longer need him.
I love Lauren, Kaleb, Carol, Dorothy, Qurat, Aga, Sam, Peter, Hannah, Chelsea, Becci, and Natalia. My friends win the internet. And to Milly, Jessica, Rachel, Logan, and Melissa... Well, I will never forget you. Despite our fall-outs and miscommunications, I will think of you often. And Logan... where the HELL did you come from? 0-o Just when I think my connections to that hellhole are gone, POOF! There you are.
Oh. And pocky is God.
NOTE FROM ME: Well now... I'm sad to say that taking two writing courses along with an AP English class was one of the worst decisions I've ever made. Although I feel that I've been developing my skills as a formal writer, and possibly as a creative writer as well, I feel more staunched than improved. It leaves me very little time to write for myself, you know? To write something just for me, just because I want to say it and think it and see it on paper or on the screen. By the time I'm done pumping out writing assignments for these classes, I'm mentally and creatively exhausted. I'm debating using the work I've done in those classes to post here as well, but I find that I'm not really proud enough of those pieces because they were forced instead of allowed to flow. I'll figure that out soon enough.
FictionPress.com - let the words flow
