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Untitled pieces(in 3rd person) from January '05. (1 Viewer)



She doesn’t know what’s going on or how to fix it. But of course, if she doesn’t know the cause of her despair, what is there to fix?
She’s been trying to shape up so everyone can be happy. She doesn’t particularly miss any of the activities she partook in. She’s pleased with the choices she’s made since the beginning of fall, excluding some of the sexual things she has done with her boyfriend. Being sexually active doesn’t really bother her, but she knows it isn’t what she should be doing.
She wishes she was the perfect little girl that everyone is pleased with. Being forced to be perfect and expected to be perfect would be easier than her parents not expecting much of anything and all the while, wishing she was that little girl who would get pushed until she cried every night. At least she’d have a reason for her tears.
What is it that she strives for? Everything is so muddled, she isn’t quite sure who she is. She’s just a faceless person in a crowd, trying to find her way around without eyes. She is no different than other girls her age. She strives to be different, but she’s not good enough to make the change.
She feels as if she has two different people residing in one body. She has one person who wants to be as saintly as Mother Teresa, the one who wants to make a difference, to be remembered for a special reason when she’s lying motionless in her coffin. She wants to be so many things to so many different people. And then the other part of the girl is playing devil’s advocate. This girl cares too, but she so caught up in something she can’t quite put her finger on, she can’t put one foot in front of the other to make the change. She’s too superficial, too shallow, too hung up.
Even if this girl is confused on the inside, she makes a fool of herself in not hiding, in letting people around her catch a glimpse of her self-induced hell. The attention is not needed, they wouldn’t understand. They’d probably think her quest is odd, indescribable.
The more she writes, the more she spins herself deeper into confusing. If she wants something as bad as she claims, why can’t she make herself do something about it? Her feet are glued to the floor. When she tries to move, to change, she lifts her food only to fall on her face. She lays there, stunned that she couldn’t make any movement. The more she tries, the more she sinks helplessly into the floor. She watches helplessly as others move freely forward; if anything is holding them back, it does not show. When her feet are suddenly released, she flies back, farther from her destiny.
She wishes she could use a giant eraser and completely erase certain experiences, emotions, and happenings that have molded her into the confused mess that she is. She could swipe away the little particles, right off this table and start now. Her old life, her confusion, her imperfection, everything she is not pleased with would be blown away by a breeze and she wouldn’t think twice.

She desires many things. Many of her desires, she realizes, will forever evade her; they will tease her, tantalize her, coming closely within grasp and float away gracefully, leaving her with fresh tears on her face.

She does not know why her dreams tease her so.

She believes in love and being in love. She knows that loving is possible, but loving herself seems unreachable. She does not have enough love in her heart for herself; she must love others first and then her well of love had run dry. She has no room in her heart to love herself; there are too many imperfections that haunt her. This scares her, will she ever love herself?

This state of hating oneself has become normal; she is sure that, if the miracle ever would happen and she began to love herself, she would not know what to do.

Maybe deep in her heart, she does love herself. She has thought the theory through. She must love herself a little, otherwise where could the small amounts of happiness come from? She reasons that the happiness does not mean she is happy with herself, but with others. She thought she knew what love was. She does still know what love is, but she has never known what it means to love yourself.

She does not know the source of her anguish.

She knows that she loves her horse. She knows what she feels for her boyfriend is love. Although this girl is already lost in this world, she would be more so if she lost either of her loves. If she happened to lose herself, she would not mind. As long as her replacement was better than herself, she would not mind. She is beginning to lose her mind; her words no longer hold meaning. She sees what she is writing, but she is numb. Numbness and confusion have made themselves welcome in her life and she does not know how to make them leave.