The Book I'll Never Write

Chapter: Not quite the first one

I write about myself as if I am something magical. I fill pages upon pages about a version of me that I desperately wish I could be. I write about my hair: soft, silky, and a beautiful shade of red. I write about my porcelain skin, which has freckles dusted over it's surface. I write about my eyes, a dazzling shade of green that turns from blue to brown to green depending on how I feel or what I wear. I write about my body, gentle curves with bones lightly peeking through. I write about how I've been through so much, but still manage to smile. I write stars into my eyes and constellations onto my skin.

In my little written world, I am striking. I make people look twice, some even stop and stare. I float around my paper life like I own the world. I sing with a voice so powerful it can bring a grown man to tears. I am delicate, I am shy, but I am strong and I am bold. I am all I've ever wanted to be.

I write about how my handwriting is unique and different, and how I see the world in a different light. In my world, I am not a hero, but I make a difference. I make people happy, and help them when they need it. But I never write the exact truth. I build myself up, or I tear myself down to the core. I write myself as a tragedy, or I write myself as the uniquely loveable girl who wins over everyone's hearts.

If I'm being honest though, I'm neither of those things. Sure, some aspects of the truth are in my words, but they are glorified.

If I were to write down how I see myself, it'd be a little sad. I have short hair, dyed a dark red, that curls slightly. My eyes are relatively large, but dull and muted, and hidden behind a pair of glasses. My skin is pale and blotchy, littered with freckles. I'm not skinny enough to be called skinny, but I'm not big enough to be called thick either. my nails are extremely short, due to me ripping them and biting them when I'm nervous. I'm functional, so people don't assume anything is wrong, but I'm just broken enough for them to pity me.

You'd love how I write myself in stories though. Delicate, with snow white skin. Thoughtful and sweet, with a sort of positive energy surrounding me. I write a galaxy into my soul, and let it seep out through my eyes and my smile.

I hope and dream and wish that someone would see the galaxy inside me. Because I really do believe it's there, I know it is.

But I'm average. Nobody would pay enough attention to me to see it. I read all the time, and I talk to my friends when they're there. I'm happy in the moment, but looking back I just feel dull. I get bored easily and I just feel like all my days are melding together into one, really long one.

If these are my glory days, why don't I feel glorious? If these are the days of my youth, why do I feel tired and old? Why do I have an outlook too wise for my age? I notice a lot about other people, and I could almost see their story unfold before me. But nobody ever seems to notice me.

I'm full of a dull ache, like I'm missing something... I just don't know what. But It's life, and I have to live with it.

That's why I decided to write, because those who read get to escape from their own world for a while.

So welcome, to possibly the strangest book you'll ever read, (assuming I finish it of course) The Book I'll Never Write.