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| It has been seventeen years since you arrived on this planet we call earth. Where you came from? We don’t know because you’re not exactly the “norm” now are you? The people you love don’t let you forget it. You’re weird, abnormal, questionable, they say. But I know you better than anyone.
You tend to care more than you should at times. You can be a real control freak one day and the next your room can look like a twister just hit it. On your best days you feel happy, pretty, smart, and coy even, but on your worst days you tend to feel lost, dirty, lonely, and rejected.
You can have bipolar tendencies and unlike most people you can handle the tough, brutal things but it’s the small things that get to you in life. You’re understanding, helpful and kind but once someone does you wrong you never go back. Many things in life are hard but the hardest for you is denying chocolate entrance to your mouth and most importantly, forgiving.
You have a dream, this fantasy that replays in your head every time you close your eyes. It's almost a goal, the perfect goal: You’re holding a book. A very simple, yet elegant creature created by a promising mind. You hold it, caress it even.
You think about the bad reviews it has received but you’re glad someone besides you has opened it. You think about the copies waiting eagerly to be bought and you don't care that they're sitting on the clearance shelf.
You think about the people that fall in love with the book's rhythm day to day, the people that curse the author for killing literature single handedly and you simply laugh. You feel proud, accomplished, though no one knows why.
You run your fingers along the spine where the author’s name is so elegantly written. Letter by letter it reads “Giselle Flores.” ...now everyone knows why.
It's your dream to become an author, you don’t ask for J.K. Rowling status you just ask to see your words in print.
And with this on your seventeenth birthday, I wish you the best of luck in accomplishing this goal of yours.
Write on! We're waiting. | | |
| You're a real bitch you know?
It’s time you realize that you’re not the nicest person alive. You’re also not as realistic as you say, so stop campaigning your “cordiality” to everyone. We both know that when the door closes the mask melts and out comes the real you. A monster so ghastly you yourself hide under layers and layers of an ever changing personality.
You walk in the bathroom and you can’t stand to look in the mirror. Seeing the dry emptiness in those eyes makes you cringe.
I hope that one day someone will be able to understand and give you what you seek. And you know what? You do have someone at your side that has given you all you need. Why can’t you accept him?
“I’ve apologized for everything I’ve done. I’m telling you that I’m wrong and you’re right. Why won’t you accept it?” He says.
And I see your lips quiver at the corners. Deep inside your icy heart is warming slightly. You want to tell him that you trust him, that he’s become everything to you, that he is the one you’ve vested all your hope on. But you choose not to tell him.
“He’ll think I’m cheesy, he won’t feel the same, I’m scared…” Endless theories course your brain as you bite your lip trying to hold it all in.
You love him, you need him but you can’t fathom letting him know. You see those things as ammo that he can turn back on you. You’re paranoid, insecure and in turn to protect yourself you hurt him. And to think that I, myself, am still here with you. I should know better. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m the next victim on your list.
I understand that you've been hurt before, that he has hurt you. He dropped you like a rock and he apologized for it. Said he wanted to work things out even. That he regretted doing what he did. But here you are like a bitch as always.
I am your friend only because I can’t get rid of you. If I could I’d run away from you, detach myself, sever you from me entirely, but I can’t because we are one. You are me and I am you, we are the same person.
You’re...I'm a real bitch you know? | | |
| A notebook, a pen and scribbled note cards used to litter my desk’s surface. Overtime in its place a computer tower, a dusty keyboard and a bulky monitor. It’s the place where I used to put my daydreams down on paper and eventually evolved into document typing. Sure the heavy, oak desk was replaced with a scrawny, pale, weakling. But in essence it is the same place because a writer’s desk is not a physical spot it is a state of mind.
Now that place lays abandoned, unused.
I’ve spent hours at a time daydreaming hundreds of scenes and about a third of that time trying to put them down on paper. And I wonder how the idea that I will get published someday, fits in my creative little head if I don’t write as much as a writer should.
I give myself a timeframe, deadlines even but I can’t follow one. Now I am left to wonder what is going to happen to my dream if I don’t take the wheel (“JESUS TAKE THE WHEEEEEL.” Ha-ha, that song cracks me up) and take care of business. I have close to five book-worthy stories in my head all of which I obsess over finding out more but I never develop it on paper. I need to get in gear.
You smell that? It’s the sweet scent of warm oatmeal cookies. It’s time to write some words, even if they don’t make sense.
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