Title: The Window
Author: FANG Productions
Summary: La Fenêtre, the window. Synesthesia, tongues, wonderland, existentialism; the four panes reveal a glimmer of what it is like to live in my world.
A/N: Hi. I wrote this about a month ago when I asked my dad for a pencil and he told me he'd give me one if I wrote an essay about myself. So I did, and I figured I'd post it here for internet stalkers. I mean, interested readers. Enjoy.
::synesthesia, the first pane::
Imagine, for a moment, that you could identify people merely by touch. Your friend's arm felt green to you; not viridian, but the gentle chartreuse of a budding leaf. Your brother feels red – sickly and thick, like heavy lipstick.
Imagine you remembered songs because of the hues they sounded like.
Pop music sounded mostly pink and purple, with bubbly tones that grated unbearably against the grey of punk or metal.
Imagine that you could easily pick out five zeroes in a group of one hundred Os because, though they were printed in black ink, you see zeroes in red and the letter o in green.
Now imagine writing a story by stringing together colors.
"What's a synonym for recognition that I could use?"
"No, that won't work. Recognition is blue, and familiarity is red. Red is too bright for what I am trying to convey."
Would you be able to live like this? Could you bear this constant intrusion on your senses for your whole life?
There is a mental disorder that results in cases like the above. The brain will compute symbols, sounds, objects, etc. as colors.
I do not believe that I suffer from this (if the condition really causes any suffering at all_. I can, however, relate. I associate words with colors, and this has helped both my writing and academic prowess.
This mental image of colors has, I admit, been affected by visuals. "Ocean" sounds blue, just as "grass" sounds green and "sun" appears yellow. But what about intangible words? Numbers, adjectives, names? I have colors for those too.
Zero and one are white. Two is blue. Three is green. Four is red. Five is green. Six is yellow. Seven is pink. Eight is orange. Nine is brown. I have memorized only three telephone numbers; my home phone, my mom's cell, and my dad's work. The first has been drilled into my head since grade K; the latter two I know only because of the colors.
The capital of Norway is Oslo, both of which are aloof blue colors. This differs from Latvia and Riga, who are a childish purple. Even white Reykjavik can be connected to light blue Iceland compared to the majestic tones of Belarus and Minsk.
Of course, there are countries like Denmark (orange) with capitals like Copenhagen (blue), and those colors seemingly have nothing to do with each other…until you realize that blue and orange are opposites.
My colors can't help me with anything unless I consciously make them significant. Luckily, this is simple; making connections has never troubled me.
::tongues, the second pane::
Why is it that writers tell stories? And what makes readers listen? Why don't authors go to college and become lawyers or doctors or scientists? Why not make a physical change on the worlds? Why don't readers get up and exercise or make friends or live? Why is so captivating about simple words that can ensnare the literary world and create purposes?
Is it an escape? A tantalizing world that's so close, so forbidden and impossible? Is it a chance to live somewhere else as someone else? Is it a chance to let go of now, then, and later?
I suppose many people have different reasons. Some might not have any reason at all. Perhaps they don't need one. And the people who do; because they write for the sake of writing? Because they want to? They need to? They crave it.
As a writer, I cannot say I have any definite reason myself. I am whimsical. I am self-centered. I am manipulating, obsessive, and unattainably insane. I write because I can, yes, and I write because I do. Nothing feels right like the sensation of a pencil in your hand, the sound of the keyboard clicking away late into the night. The sword can be your weapon, but my pen will be my shield. You can make me cry, but I can capture the moment in words and reply it again and again.
I can create something from these scribbles in this notebook; I can bring to life a character who would never have existed without me. I can portray happiness, hatred, turmoil, and in a fit of twisted sadism, I can reap death in the folds of a story.
I have power. In between my muse, the words, and me, I dictate everything.
I write because I am a writer, and because there is no satisfaction in the world like losing myself in the silent chaos of my mind.
::wonderland, the third pane::
I do not bore easily. This is because I am rarely alone. Wherever I go, a flurry of words, phrases, and ideas flock at my feet. Most days, I find myself wandering the world of whichever story I am working on at the moment, but occasionally I can stray into a realm that I conjured up on the spot. I remember what happens there and write it down once I fall back to Earth. This is how I write a good majority of my stories.
Sometimes my journey warps mid-adventure as I add in a missing element. I consider myself a flexible person, so I am quick to adapt. I have no qualms about strange things, so a pirate who fears water or a delusional ventriloquist would fit snugly along with the rest of my imagination. Of course, on does not equal two and gravity does not propel objection into outer space; anything in my kingdom that cannot be reasonably explained when all is over and done with is efficiently ejected and killed with fire.
Clichés and stereotypes are regarded as a plague under my iron fist. When I touch the preppy blonde perfect snob, she colors and flourishes, flawed and real. When I dance with the egotistical rich antagonist, he gains a heart and morals; he becomes human again.
Because I breathe into the flowers, they sprout not only tulips, daisies, and violets, but delphiniums and phlox and smilax. Through my eyes, nothing is beautiful or mysterious or scary. The locket is crafted from sterling silver, intricate and filled with its crafter's soul; the transfer student has no regard for appearances, donning argyle on plaid and mismatched shoes; the prospect of moving to Germany leaves my mind in a quivering mass that I cannot untangle.
My fantasies are so deranged and complex that any map would be indecipherable. No one who ventures in can escape the rigid snares, and I relish every moment.
::existentialism, the fourth pane::
There comes a point in everyone's life when they sit back and ask themselves, "Did I do everything I wanted to? Where am I? Where did I begin and where will I end? Am I happy?"
I am not at that point yet. I am fourteen, young, sometimes ignorant and dumb. I still don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to get there, and whatever I choose, I'll undoubtedly get lost along the way.
But eventually, I'll reach the same predicament as the rest of the world will.
You see, there are a lot of people and just as many different types of people. You can ask a man in Pennsylvania, USA, "What time is it?" and he'll say something akin to, "Oh, it's six o'clock," which is all fine and dandy. But if you ask a man in England the same question at the same time, he'd say, "It's eleven."
Or you could ask, "What completes you?"
A woman in Montana might answer, "My husband. He's so handsome and charming. I love him more than anything."
But a man living in Sydney, Australia would claim, "I have no significant other as important to me as my work; I am a musician and I will love my masterpieces from beyond the grave."
And if you ask, "What is the meaning of life?" Well, you'd get a plethora of replies so diverse that I could not possibly list them all. You'd get answers dealing with religion and love and family, and perhaps about success or helping others.
And I agree. I am not saying that any one of those answers is wrong, because if you asked me, "What is the meaning of life?" I would say, "What do you think?"
There is a philosophy from the nineteenth century that states, and I am relaying this in much simpler terms, that the meaning of life is to find the meaning of life. And I agree, six hundred and twenty-five percent. There are many people in this world, and all of them are different.
I am sure you all know, but my passion is writing. I love writing, and I cannot imagine another life. But my brother likes video games, and my mom likes gardening, and I have cousins who sing and swim and run. And if the meanings of life was to write (or to sing or swim or run), then the world would be a much less interesting place to be.
So I guess what I was trying to say is that I love writing, and right now, all I want to do is write. And maybe, when the time comes to evaluate my life, I will be a famous published author, and I'll say, "Yes, I've done everything I wanted. I am content." Or maybe I'll be a nameless and homeless woman on the streets who long gave up her hobby because it did not put food on the table, and I'll say, "No, I wish I'd never picked up that accursed pencil. I should have sung or swam or ran."
Maybe, when the time comes, I will be an average person, the kind you walk by on the streets without giving her a second thought because she is so mundane. And if you ask me, "Are you happy with your life?" I'll say, "Well, writing isn't the greatest profession, and it isn't the most helpful. Maybe writing is not the meaning of my life anymore as it once was. But yes, I am happy because the writing was not a waste. Because of writing, I am who I am today. I am defined, and I am myself. And that is enough."