Big F**king Mood: A New Narrative

*

I'm really not much of a writer. Penning inconsequential words on scraps of paper that burn up in my memory; ashes that float away on an already forgotten breeze. Sometimes people catch scraps of it. They may love it or hate it. Think beautiful or terrible. It's never been a secret where I stand on my own skills. Yet still I try, ceaselessly, attempting to write something more meaningful than the mindless drivel of a young girl whose greatest fear is whether or not she's wanted by those around her.

I'm also not much of a confronter of feelings. I have them, of course, try as I might to get rid of them. I'm simply, not one to deal with them. I'd rather push them away and live in a world of false ignorance and peace. Unfortunately, that has been labeled by society as unhealthy behavior. As it turns out, most of my habits and coping mechanisms have been deemed unhealthy. For example, my habit of being unwilling to verbalize my emotions whenever they threaten to overwhelm me, drown me in images and snippets of audio from long since locked away memories. Even my hesitancy to write them here, something I'm only achieving by imaging them being written by someone else.

Writing as though I am someone else in a different time. Someone better, smarter. Someone not exhausted constantly. Someone who can maybe face her problems instead of using them as an excuse to play out the scenario of a sad Victorian English girl, writing on parchment by candlelight.

As I've said, I'm not much of a writer. Maybe she is.

- obviously, I wish I was