wordjunky
Barrel down Niagra falls,a dare your best friend bet a dollar you couldn't do. Staring out through the tiny air hole,you see the water rushing towards you, as if it was welcoming you to join it. The mist sprays across your face, and as you tumble downwards, the raging noise of the water consumes you, filling your mouth and eardrums with death and all things cold. I bet your friend believes you now that your body is floating downstream towards the American border, your red sweater blending in with the gash on your forehead, the pieces of the wooden barrel smashed into a hundred pieces, eaten alive by the force that killed you. Of course we can't blame the falls for sending you downwards, now can we? We only have stupidity for that. I wonder how your friend will feel when he finds out that the mustard yellow scarf he knitted you was wrapped around your neck for good luck.
She sat down on the yellow wooden chair in the center of her old bedroom. Her window wide open, yawning from the Sunday sun, white curtains billowing in the breeze. The pink flowers that bordered along the stitching opened up their mouths and began whispering poetry into her ear.Telling her to swim to Never land by way of Atlantis, riding on the backs of mermaids, and old pirate ships to Narnia, jumping into story books and falling into wonderland. All she wanted to do was run, run, run, fists clenched, knees bent, eyes closed, feet hitting the pavement harder then she ever thought possible, away from the trip life was about to take her on.
But she was too old for childhood games. She knew that from this moment on, life would always let her down. Her dreams were too big, her lust too strong, for something that everyone else seemed to abandon so easily. It seemed she couldn't outgrow her favorite pair of light-up running shoes, or let go of her mothers warm embrace when monsters threatened to pull her under the bed. She couldn't bear the thought of never spending another night in the tree house she made with her father when she was ten years old, or
building snowmen with the neighborhood kids, and feeling like you could somehow change the world if only you convinced your parents to sponsor a child on Christmas morning. She knew what she was supposed to want, but couldn't seem to muster up the courage to completely abandon her idealistic daydreams.
So she began lusting after the written word. The way she could transform single letters into entire realms of fantasy, made her salivate like a newborn baby hungry for its mothers milk. She rarely even noticed the emptiness of her stomach, it was worth missing a meal or two here or there.
But the truth is, I am not determined. I never was one to fight for things to be exactly the way I wanted them to be. Perfection is never enjoyable. Some say i'm missing out on what life truly has to offer , but I say they're missing out on the ride of experience, grabbing on, letting it take you where ever it wants to go. Laziness can be a spiritual journey, a realization that your existence is enough, never having to prove yourself to others. You already know that you're capable of doing it, so why bother?
Determined is such a strong word. Steadfast, and ever so large. Like, no matter how many misty mountaintops stand in your way, you can always be sure that you will get through the things that make life hard. The father who was always there for you, the mother who broke her back to never let you know she was struggling, determined to give you a life she never had, nor will she ever.
First, they chop off my arms and legs, pulling out my internal organs, adjusting the length of my intestines,reconstructing my body to cater to their sick standards of perfection. My body is broadcasted and plastered onto a billboard with the sloppy fashion of a two year old, hurriedly finishing me off with a splash of bleach, running out of Elmers before they could paste my mind into the equation.