fic: listing up the lies.
listing up the lies.
creative non-fiction. I wish that lists like this, listing all the things you wish you were, all the things that went wrong didn't exist. That there wouldn't be a NEED for me to write fanfiction on how I cry every night before I go to bed. That I could be perfectly happy with my own selfish, self-absorbed life.
I sometimes wish that I could romanticize every situation. Write original fic like a movie, a story, romantic and hopeful, painting a pretty picture even as I write down how I cry most nights before I go to sleep. Actually, I wish that all the time. I wish I lived in the TV; Blair Waldorf, Temperance Brennan, Rose Tyler.
I wish I was them; the personality, the family, the friends, the body to match.
I wish I could talk to someone apart from my conscience, withering away and quickly becoming a pile of dust, as it's not like I take the advice it tells me often. That I could tell my mother what's on my mind, that we had no secrets. But those days are long gone, they stopped in Grade Four.
I wish that I could have a perception of perfect; that I could blur over the lines and flood it over myself. Eradicate those flabby thighs, thin out the nose, fix the teeth, thicken the eyelashes, enlarge the lips, get rid of the wrinkles that are all-together too eager.
I wish that I was a rich mogul, born into a world that the only sorrows could be fixed by a thick wad of green. I wish that I wasn't so selfish to wish this.
I wish that I could act my age; that I wouldn't have to be writing all of this at the age of fourteen. That I wouldn't be forced to grow up so quickly, with my parents divorced, my mother dating a sixty-year old man, and so many other things that don't matter.
I wish that it was true, what they say. That happiness isn't your situation, it's how you live in it. That money is of no value; who are you KIDDING? Half-starved kids in Africa don't seem very happy to me; but neither do us. We smoke pot, we take drugs, we smoke cigarretes, we suicide, we kill, we rape, we lie.
I wish that true happiness, being content with your lot and situation, was possible. That I wouldn't have to compile this list, which makes me tear at the seams as I write.
A/N: Please tell me what you think. I'm nervous - this is my first delve into creative-nonfiction and I'm not all that sure how good it is. Even if it sucked, I'd love some comments! ♥
if you like what you see, JOIN the community. ;)
creative non-fiction. I wish that lists like this, listing all the things you wish you were, all the things that went wrong didn't exist. That there wouldn't be a NEED for me to write fanfiction on how I cry every night before I go to bed. That I could be perfectly happy with my own selfish, self-absorbed life.
I sometimes wish that I could romanticize every situation. Write original fic like a movie, a story, romantic and hopeful, painting a pretty picture even as I write down how I cry most nights before I go to sleep. Actually, I wish that all the time. I wish I lived in the TV; Blair Waldorf, Temperance Brennan, Rose Tyler.
I wish I was them; the personality, the family, the friends, the body to match.
I wish I could talk to someone apart from my conscience, withering away and quickly becoming a pile of dust, as it's not like I take the advice it tells me often. That I could tell my mother what's on my mind, that we had no secrets. But those days are long gone, they stopped in Grade Four.
I wish that I could have a perception of perfect; that I could blur over the lines and flood it over myself. Eradicate those flabby thighs, thin out the nose, fix the teeth, thicken the eyelashes, enlarge the lips, get rid of the wrinkles that are all-together too eager.
I wish that I was a rich mogul, born into a world that the only sorrows could be fixed by a thick wad of green. I wish that I wasn't so selfish to wish this.
I wish that I could act my age; that I wouldn't have to be writing all of this at the age of fourteen. That I wouldn't be forced to grow up so quickly, with my parents divorced, my mother dating a sixty-year old man, and so many other things that don't matter.
I wish that it was true, what they say. That happiness isn't your situation, it's how you live in it. That money is of no value; who are you KIDDING? Half-starved kids in Africa don't seem very happy to me; but neither do us. We smoke pot, we take drugs, we smoke cigarretes, we suicide, we kill, we rape, we lie.
I wish that true happiness, being content with your lot and situation, was possible. That I wouldn't have to compile this list, which makes me tear at the seams as I write.
A/N: Please tell me what you think. I'm nervous - this is my first delve into creative-nonfiction and I'm not all that sure how good it is. Even if it sucked, I'd love some comments! ♥
if you like what you see, JOIN the community. ;)