Books, Writers, And Me

Alive

| Warning! Might contain a lot of spoilers. Read at your own risk. |

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Alive

by @a_cinderella_story aka Ashley Winters

"I don't know what happened to you, Olivia. You've changed."

Isn't that a normal thing? Growing up?

"Don't be a writer, Oliva. It doesn't pay well. Find a job where you can earn money and be successul. Like I said, don't be a writer."

If you want me to be successful, then I should be happy for what I am doing. I can never find joy in being a physician. That is not my passion.

"Look, Mom! I finished writing the book!"

"Writing again? Didn't I told you to stop?"

I won't. I will never stop. Nor will I stop dreaming.

"Where are your notebooks in writing?" "It's in the shelf at the top of my desk." Then, she grabbed all of my works into her arms and showed them to me before she threw it in the garbage bin. She had a bottle held by her right hand and spread the liquid inside the trash can. The smell was of a gasoline, or kerosene maybe. She snatched a matchbox from my bedside table and lit a single match. She dropped the blazing fire into the bin and the fire illuminated in brightness. The pages of my story was burned. All of it. And I couldn't bring them back. There were mine. There were of my imagination. My real, true world where I'll always feel alive. No stress, no sadness.

This short story had a great wake-up call to me. Should I walk my own path? Or simply follow the rules where they'll just tell you what to do and what you have to be? The story above was a memoir of me when I was thirteen. My mother and I used to argue about my passion and she didn't really like the idea of me in a literate atmosphere. From that moment on, I stopped writing stories.

When Mads was describing herself in the story, 'Alive', she sounds so troubled and felt a big block of solitude. But she wasn't entirely alone. She had Ace. She had him to make her feel happy and free. And I had my pen and notebooks to make me feel the same. Free from unknown anxieties. Free from the walls of her house. A house full of sorrow where she couldn't decide for herself. She couldn't be happy for the way her life is. Even when she's successful.

I know, we should love our parents ever so dearly. And we really should obey them. But sometimes, they may be overprotective and be overly organized with your life. Visualize yourself, my olives. If you turn out to be the person your parents want you to be and you didn't want it, would you be happy with the job you have?

Being successful doesn't mean you have to earn money and be excellent with your career. Success means happiness. And happiness is yet to find. Are you willing to give up your passion over an obligation that your mom and dad wants you to have?

You're doubting about your answer, aren't you?

Of course, you like to live your life of passion and be happy for who you are and what you came to be. Ashley Winters taught me an exceptional lesson.

Do not allow the pain of loss, to stop the process of living.

What did I lose anyway?

Freedom.

Ashley did her very best to make me cry yet again. There was a pang of realization when Mads' words came to me.

Mother: Where have you been?

Mads: I've been living.

I've been living, Mom.

Yes, mother. I want to say that to you all this time. But I don't have the guts. You would just tell me that I am wrong, and you and dad are right.

Ashley, thank you so much for writing this. Even though it is just for a writing contest's sake. You're an amazing writer, Ash. You made me realize that escaping the world of burden and frets can make me feel better and free, even once in a while. All my life, I've been spending it to be someone that that I don't know, and I would usually look at myself in front of a mirror and just say, "You're not Olivia. You're a stranger."

To the readers gathered here in this little page of mine, I want to let you know that you've been my hands and feet to carry me to the daily Wattpad rankings. You were all there, right behind me.

To Ashley Winters, I am happy and proud to say that I ran into your work. And I didn't regret it. Nor I regret reading it. It will be a complete and utter lie if I tell you that this work of yours is bad. And I'm not great in lying. I hope you do know that this story appealed to me and I want you to be proud of it.

Lastly, to my mother, wherever you are right now; at the house, at the mall, or at your tiny bedroom; I want you to keep in mind that I'll always love you. Much to our fights and rants over my desired career and for reaching my dreams. It was you who still believed.