oxymoron
When I got behind the wheel for the first time my heart thundered madly. I gulped and stared at my father, voice wavering as I noted, "I'm pretty nervous right now." He just nodded and waved me forward, telling me to go as slow as I needed to. Slow, indeed. My very first time around the block, I went no faster than the car would roll with my foot off the brakes. Yet, even though I was crawling along at a speed which barely registered on the speedometer, I couldn't see anything but a narrow tunnel in front of me. I was so nervous, I didn't even stop at the stop sign; I didn't even see it. Good thing no one was around.
The blank canvas of the page stared me in my face. A new beginning, ready to receive the words in my head and string together a story that has been a long time coming. I've filled the canvas thus far with Nine thousand, two hundred, and sixty four words. Only 40,736 to go.
I need a new bulb-- this one is broken. I slump over my keyboard and try to think of five hundred more words to hack out into my story, all the while feeling like everything is completely devoid of anything interesting. I need a new idea bulb, because mine is dead.
Things had reached a boiling point. That day had been in planning for a long time coming, but under the edge were tensions that were bound to explode at any time. It's only a shame it had to happen on that day. Or perhaps it was because it was that day-- one which was supposed to be upbeat and full of cheer-- that brought things to where they were. How could we be so cheerful when it seemed like everything was only getting worse?
The root of the problem is me, I know it is. It's my depression, it's my dependency on these escape mechanisms. It's my diet, it's my lack of exercise, it's my total lack of excitement for anything ever-- except in rare circumstances where I actually feel powerful emotions rushing through my chest. It isn't anyone else, it's me. Any girl would be lucky to have what I have- someone who loves as deeply as he does, someone to want me as much as he wants me. And all I'm doing it is throwing it away, like everything else in my life. I know what I do, but I do it all the same.
She stretched her ivory wings out beyond her shoulders, rubbing her hands together and gazing softly upon the town nestled in the heart of the valley. They wouldn't find her up here-- she would make sure of that. She was through being the savior, for she was nothing but a person who could fly.
One step forward, five steps back. A step here, another step there. Can't I just walk from Point A to Point B without getting entangled in this waltz that is forever spinning me here and there, whirling me closer before taking me away just as quickly? All I want in life is to support myself and be happy, but this dance won't let that happen.
Where, oh where are you, my muse? People often speak of their muses as if they are a real person. Typically, Muse is a she. Muse is a she who teases their minds, tickles their creativity, but eludes them when they look to her for inspiration the most. She eludes me all the time.
I amuse myself when I stare in the mirror and pull funny faces. Sometimes I strike a glorious pose that pulls the cloth against the curve of my body just right, and a smile curls on my lips. I stand in front of the mirror for ten, twenty minutes, gesturing wildly and contorting my expression this way and that.
The band marched proudly through the halls of our school, sending the sound of their drums thundering violently around the school. I always ducked down a different path when I heard them coming; it was simply too loud for me to take.
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