Dreams

Chapter 11

Everyone tells me that I'm incredibly gorgeous. My mom, of course, as she has to, my friends, random guys who try to get me to go out with them. It's become such a commonality I don't believe it anymore.

What's even pretty about me? I just have hair and a face and body just like anybody else. Only when I'm dancing do I really feel incredibly beautiful. And then all it takes is a glance in the full length mirrors that wall our class room to see the truth.

I act like I'm beautiful. I've practiced walking like I own the very space that I inhabit, and tossing my head like flowers fall from my hair every time I turn. It's part of the mirage that I've created.

I wear nice clothes. I carefully apply a decent amount of makeup.

At home I like to sit around in a fluffy pair of pants with Eeyores on them, and a giant science fair t-shirt that was my dad's. Was. It's much older than I am, and is starting to wear out, but it will have to completely disintegrate before I will relinquish it.

And so attired I sit in my bedroom and work on my computer for hours on end. I explore the internet. I find things that interest me and I read them, I explore farther. I design webpages, I post articles about how to solve certain calculus problems. I crack into people's email accounts sometimes, and read all their messages. I almost never send anything. Sometimes a short message here or there, something that will confuse them, make them wonder if they're forgetting things. It's mostly just all research.

I'm trying to find something really worth while. Something worth looking into, some email worth replying to. Some information that might tell me about things that are really going on that no one knows about. Big things--important things. Things that actually matter.