January 4, 2015 § Leave a comment

I construct myself everyday. I sew my pieces together, each in its place. I paint my face and I string myself up. Everyday, I am someone new. I try to be. The edges are cracking, the colours fade. I am a shade of a person, a decorated ornament that I put on display each day, following day, day, day.

I’ve tried to make goals for myself. Mini goals. Lines written into my books that I can cross out. Crossing out tasks, even the smallest of them, gives me a trace of purpose. I used to have these really elaborate charts and plans. I was going to write the great american novels, a sweeping piece of historical fiction, a series of paintings that would move and sway people to rethink their entire world. I would go to school and read every book in the library, I would be a doctor and a CEO and a designer.

It’s incredibly sad to think I peeked in childhood and adolescence. I worry it’s true. Always told I’m too intense, too MUCH. It is still true, but I’ve swung too deeply into the darker and more horrific parts of myself. I am still very much the ambitious thing I always was. When I self-destruct, I self-destruct. It all still seems like a show to me. I haven’t been this person yet, I need to feel and become as entrenched as possible into this new creation. The shiny, polished manic achiever and the spoiled, discarded edge of a girl. We are the same. Terrifyingly dancing on her stage, out of sight, blurring her lines just enough.


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