was getting old. The life she led, so predictable. Did she ever go to
bed before eleven? Hardly ever. Did she ever take the circle line
home? Nope. Did she ever get A's in french? Don't make me laugh. See,
old, predictable, boring. Everything she didn't want to be.
"What are you afraid of?" She asks her reflection in the mirror every night. Take away the foundation, the eyeliner, the mascara, the eye shadow, and what do you have? A pale dark haired girl who hates the summer and has a love for chocolate. She'll stare into the mirror, as she always does, and tell herself.
"I am afraid of nothing" She'll take her pills and smoke by the open window, watch a Wim Wenders film or read a book, but she'll always know she's lying to herself. What is she afraid of?
"Change..." She writes in her notebook, her hand painting the swirling letters that secretly spell out 'Fake'.
"I'm afraid of love" She says outloud. No, she's still lying.
"Death" Wrong again.
"Me" She'll write finally. She'll rip up the page, maybe burn it, and throw the pieces out of her bedroom window, then watch them dance away into the night. They carry her secret, the one noone will ever know because nobody cares to look.
She knows she's pathetic, she knows she treats people who care about her like they don't exist. She knows she doesn't care. Care? What's the point? Was there ever a point? How can we be sure? The truth, as far as she knows, is it just wasn't meant to be.
"Being born is never a mistake" She'll write, sitting on the floor of her room, pen in one hand, cigarette in the other, notebook laying open on her lap, music playing softly in the background. "Being given the gift of life is something so beautiful we can't even imagine. I know I'm not who i want to be, god knows who I am at the moment, but I know this. Life is a curse as well as a gift. You've got to stick it out, you can't just leave half way through because then you haven't finished what you started" She'll take a drag on her cigarette and then continue "It will end, it always does. You are born nothing, you become something or you don't. The truth is it doesn't really matter. What matters is that you know who you are" She stops, closes her notebook and puts it on her desk.
She'll write like this for the rest of her life, she'll never show anyone. Next year she'll burn her notebook, the thing she holds closest to her heart. Or will she? After she dies, will someone find it and read it, and make other people read it and more and more until she's famous for her views?
The truth: no. She'll die forgotten, like she always wanted. But dreams can last forever, and hers stained the pages of every notebook she had. She was a dreamer, she always was. She woke up when she died.
And I can still see her, dancing above us laughing at our petty mistakes and blowing kisses to the birds. One day she'll fade out on the horizon, singing her dreams out loud this time. Dark hair flowing in the wind, twirling, spinning, as she dances to her song. But not yet, no, she'll never truly die.