Analyzing me(escaping my self)

Have you ever noticed how WEIRD it is that you are YOU? Why you aren’t someone else? You curse the luck that made you a victim of fetal alcohol syndrome, or praise the force that brought you into the world a billionaire.

Why are we forced to live out our lives as this one person that we may hate and revile? Why can’t we start over when we fuck up one too many times?

Why are we given life?

Is life even a gift at all?

So many questions.

Who am I??

Who is this self-styled little girl, sitting in a cold dark room in front of her ancient, decrepit computer? She has myriad worlds inside her. Sometimes she feels she will burst if she doesn’t even TRY to tell what happens there.

She knows that in some ways she is gifted. For one, she is intelligent. Not uni-at-sixteen smart, but enough so that she can get by at school without really having to try at all.

For another, she is artistically talented. Again not remarkably so, but she has enough natural skill that occasionally an unwary friend will pick up her sketchbook and flick through it, and exclaim at the patterns therein, though at the same time disturbed and confused as to how a child her own age can see things so differently from her own innocent perception.

She knows she has music-she has always appreciated how a beat, a rhythm, a pattern of words strung together in honeyed cadences can dizzy and enchant the heart and mind and soul. She would like to lose herself in music of her own creation; wishes she could enrapture thousands with her siren song.

At the same time she has possession of a knowledge that would cruelly break and devastate anyone but herself, who has borne it and moulded it around her soft, unformed SELF all her life.

She knows that she is doomed.

She knows that she will never hear one of her lovingly crafted anthems of despair blaring out of a rebellious teenager’s bedroom window on a sunny afternoon, with the rich green scent of freshly mown grass pervading the tightly closed shutters.

She knows that never to her eyes will anyone truly appreciate the desperate, swirling emotions that she tries to convey when she strokes her tattered, abused brush so lightly over the paper- a butterfly’s kiss to the soul, so unappreciative of what it is receiving.

She is, in fact, a walking suicide. She is so close to giving up. ‘Jack of all trades, master of none.’ She often wonders desperately if she will ever achieve recognition for all that she feels she could become. She tries to escape herself through writing, stories of faraway worlds where the right stone conceals a doorway to a demon’s domain; where fairies are as common as sparrows; where a girl with a sword can live by her own rules. Where she can fulfil HER SELF.

She wants to do all the things she’s read about- to fly with dragons and summon demons.

She is overcome by the crushing despair that living with reality brings.

She was not made for the real world, but for the realms of the imagination that she does not have.

She is a dying baby bird that will never fly.

All this she knows as surely as a mother knows her child. She has birthed her own despair. Every day she is choked by the fug of unnecessity, the stupidity of the people that she has to live with. She sees too clearly, perceives too keenly. She must live crippled by the world that she was born into. Her soul was misplaced, cast into a barren desert of blind, habitual creatures.

She drowns in her inability to articulate. She is truly a ‘flipper baby of the mind’.

This knowledge drives her insane with the dumb certainty of her caged mind.

She is fourteen years old.