Vivienne Dixon is ten years old and alive. She knows she's alive because that's what her name means. The name Vivienne originates from ancient Rome and was used as a variant of the name Viviana. It is derived from the Latin word 'vivus' meaning 'ali...
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𝗽𝗿𝗲-𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: just a warning that vivienne does talk a lot about a whole lot of things, she's a ten year old girl, okay!!! also it's different from the original daryl/merle start of the apocalypse, because idk how i would have written that. okay thanks, enjoy!!
ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
Daddy says that I have an overimaginative mind for a kid my age. He says that I think too big and too deep about things that kids don't need'a think about, things that even grown adults don't need'a think about.
But I can't help it. I think my brain is powered like a windmill. It's constantly goin' round and round and round and round. And there's no stoppin' it.
Like right now. I'm sat on the floor of my bedroom, looking at my unicorn figure that's on my rug, and my brain won't stop. The thoughts come into my head before I can even stop them.
It's like they are their own people, comin' into my brain without me knowin'. I can't stop it. They control me, I don't control them.
The one in my head right now is about stars. Which is silly 'cause it's day time and the stars aren't even out right now.
Lawrence M. Krauss said 'Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust.'
I know that because the children's section of the library is real borin' so I went and read books in the other sections.
Lawrence M. Krauss was probably not meanin' to freak me out, but he did. All I can think about is how many stars make up my body. What if every single finger is a different star? That's ten stars in itself. And then what about toes? Or strands of hair? Or freckles? I could be made up of millions of different stars. And I don't have a way to know how many I'm made up of.
'You are all stardust' makes it all sound real poetic and cute. But it's really not. Maybe for David Bowie it is, but not for me. How much stardust makes up me? Am I all stardust, how much of it? Like as much as a bag of sugar, or more?
It really, really annoys me that I don't know how many stars, or how much stardust. And it's not even somethin' that I need to know, 'cause why would it matter?
My hands are balled real tight into fists by my sides. My fingernails are diggin' into my palms and I can feel the blood collectin' on my skin, but I ignore it. The pain is helpin' me from not throwin' up again.
