I was born with a complicated and tangled as a sycamore tree family structure. My biological dad never shadowed in my life. My biological mom remarried so I was practically sent out for adoption . I always considered that word as dirty. And I’m pretty much deprived of any overrated talent . As the clock continues Its clockwise ticking, my mouth always remained zipped and I masked myself with a blank face. I’m a self-proclaimed movie fanatic or should that be lunatic. I have this theory that pertains to my nonexistence. That I am just born to play a part in someone else’s life that’s why I feel kind of suspended in the realm of reality. That there is no certain plan of how my destiny is going to be played. Or is it just because I feel so lost? that the only road that I barely see is what the elders had directed me to travel. Im not compassionate, and I hate myself for it. Generally I couldn’t care less of other people’s wellness as much as I want to and have to, but I’m in the process of reconsidering because it‘s kind of mandatory. My favorite word is cliche since someone whom doesn’t know me mutually, practically slapped that to my face of which I’m glad he did when I was 17(which certainly isn’t ancient enough to be pushed behind the closet) . I have spent my teen aged years in solitary confinement both by choice and by force. I’m trapped in the world of vampires, wolves, witches , wizards, goblins and other mystical creatures that are bound to be found within a fiction book. My favorite mystic characters of course are witches and wizards. “ Earth and water protect me, air and fire bring my desire”. My dream mystic ability is to be able to fly, nothing like the wind brushing beneath my feet. As childish as it may seem I’m a real sucker for spaghetti and chocolates and I’m terribly petrified by snakes. I daydream a lot, probably because of the said theory earlier, by trying to picture yourself in a landscape to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts (muddy!!). My newest hero is LJ Smith, and I wish to dwell in her Night world and find that quixotic silver cord at last. Coffee slips to my body for the first hour of every day and I kiss coffee good night before I float in the endless horizons and be completely consumed by darkness and be absorbed by the stillness of the nocturnal atmosphere. Reality bites, If I could, I’d rather stay printed In the pages of a hard-covered mind blowing fiction but I’m merely a full blooded , hundred percent muggle. Supernatural may have skipped me
physically but it is still drifting in my veins unnoticed for now, but something scarce would be initiated eventually of that I’m certain. I just got out from the country of Panem, from the Hunger games imagined by Suzzane Collins. I felt how my whole body got licked and burned by fire through Katniss Everdeen. How my wings that stands for rebellion got smothered by the bomb Gale and Beete might have made not for me but for Snow’s people. I felt how my feet got sweep off because of Peeta’s powerful words and the brightness of his blue eyes. But I couldn’t be because I am not Katniss, the hunter, the girl from the Seams , the Mockingjay, Collins isn’t the writer of my story. I evolve into a parasite every time I indulge and take a plunge into an impossible tale. Like everything about this wretched girl is lost and all that is left is the ruins of a brain to be au fait with and a heart to stir emotions. I dissolve into the thin air but it happens so quietly that it leaves me undisturbed, so still that it’s as if I keep on listening to a story teller that breathes only to narrate to me. Im a typical suffer in silence type, though I do not entirely think that silence is equivalent to suffering. It s more like a blanket that warms you against the colds shoulders of societal discrimination and utmost cruelness.
