Morning Dew

Alive

          I once heard that there are only seven plots that a book can be written about. Only seven in this huge world. And sometimes I still think about that, even though I heard about it what seems like fifty years ago. And when I think about it I want to cry. I want to cry and throw a rage fit and scream and throw things and yell and explode with the injustice of it all. That phrase "explode with the injustice of it all" is never given justice, you know. I don't remember when I found out what that feels like but I experience it once in a while. Sometimes, like these, you experience such feeling in anger, others in pain or happiness. It just has to be a strong feeling. And the feeling twists you from the inside out and cuts through the fabric of your very soul. It's pure agony; as though there's a little tiny ball of pure feelings and energy that's bottled either right in the pit of the stomach or in the very bones of your rib cage. And it just eats you alive. Your body's burning from the inside and it convulses with waves of agony. It's feels like crap but its so damn powerful it just takes over your body for the moment. That's what forcing me to write at 2:18 on a Monday morning where I stayed up to read The Fault in Our Stars. I want to put in two thoughts here. One is how my bedsheets are tear-bleed and the other on the force that's telling me that I can't wait until morning to write this. The best time to write is in the dead of the night where the whole house is sleeping, I assume even our fat black cat, that makes the staircase landing its bed for the night. Something's telling me that I must write this now while the tears are still fresh on the streets and I'm still in a delusional state of mind. So here's why.

       I keep realizing I want to create some permanent. Something unique. Something original. I don't want to write in the lines of the seven plots of the world and I don't want to follow the hero's journey. Why can't I make something my own? Why can't I create something in this big wide world where we spend 8 billion a day on military, where we can't feed our people, and where nothing we leave seems to leave a mark, rather a scar. That's why I need to write this now. Maybe with this fiery ball of passion and anger or whatever the hell this is, I can finally create something mine. Something beautiful and undeniably somewhat scary.

       I don't think I want to die. I always said I'd commit suicide before sixteen. Maybe I won't. I realize I want to see how things turn out. Maybe I'll move to London after all. Maybe I'll become a criminal prosecutor like I've wanted to since the age of five. Maybe I'll live in my circular library, which I've got all planned out. Or maybe i'll live in a London flat overlooking Big Ben and say: "Good morning, Big Ben" as my friend's mother used to say to the Kazakhstani government building every morning. Maybe I'll work at a small cafe and be a disgrace to my Russian accountant mother and my engineer father. Hell, maybe I'll stay in this small little town that my Paris-loving best friend hates with all her heart. Maybe I'll raise a family here. But that's the best part. I want to see what happens.

      I want to live. I want to grow out my hair and henna it red. I want to jump off a playground swing like I did with a former sister and I want to splatter paint a poster and then disobey my parents and plank on the sidewalk. I want to take the SAT and have my locker get jammed. I want to see another sunrise and I want to stay up till 2 reading again. I want to try escargots and I want to come home with blisters upon my broken feet from dancing. I want do stupid things and I want to study psychology, as soon as I can spell it right. I want to paint the sunset while drinking my favorite, a carmel latte. I want to write something that will last forever. And I think I want to fall in love.

    I want to fall in love. I want to fall in love with a guy and have him not be able to finally gather up his guts to ask me to a dance, like my friend's soon-to-be-boyfriend is stalling with her.  I want to flirt and tease and poke and over-analyze every single text. And I want to finally be kissed because I've waited so damn long for this idiot to ask me out. I want to go on a date and climb a tree with him and fall onto him at the rink because he skated in front of me at the last moment, trying to scare me. I want a stupid cliche love story and I want my heart broken so I can just as foolishly trust someone again.

    I'm writing now so maybe in my passion that slowly subsiding, I can write something worth a while. Something that's new and something that's from the heart. Because while I was writing this, I was thinking. I was thinking that maybe it's not the plot that makes things worth the read; maybe it's the heart and soul inside of it.

   Off to sleep now. I'm going to post this tonight, as the last act of insanity or passion, whatever you'd like to call it. I want someone to read it; it just takes one person. But I want them to feel this delusion. Just for a moment, just for a day.

Hey there. So I've finally gotten around to editting this. So now this is the edit version, without any "u" instead of you or "urs" instead of yours. If you find any shorthand in this that I missed, let me know please. I've decided to leave the sentence be and not to change any meaning, in order to preserve the state and emotion this was written in. Enjoy :)

~Lily Snape