I've come to dread the morning, the sunlight that showed the room that I happen to live in. The same room I spend most of my days living in, too scared to go out and greet the world. But, I'm okay with that, I'm okay with staring at the tree just out of my window. I'm okay not being out there, besides, too many kids roam my neighborhood for me to care.
But, I still get up, some how I get up. I stare at my reflection for a minute, trying to focus on each feature. Dark hair just barely above my shoulders, dark green eyes, and freckles spattered along the bridge of my nose. I was always told they'd look better if I actually went outside, but why would I do that?
I don't know who I'm staring at. Is this really what I look like? I wonder what I look like to other people? It doesn't matter, in the end my face doesn't matter, I die and turn to bones, it's the bones that matter. The bones that seem to rattle my frame, the same bones that feel hollow. Why is this who I am? What does it matter anyway, I know it means nothing to be this way. The only one to suffer the consequence of this way is me.
Maybe I shouldn't be so careless with my own self. Fighting the urge to constantly get in my old beat up car and hold a middle finger up as I blew this town. I guess I just lived with everyone being in my review mirror and being caught up in it. Besides there's some hidden path for life I guess. It starts with being born and people ask you what you want to be, you're supposed to say something cute like astronaut or president, and the adults smile. Then you grow up and it's time to decide what you actually want to be, childish fantasies aside. Who will you be?
Then you're an adult and it's when you're getting married, then how many kids do you want. Then you're finally old enough to realize you wasted your life on pointless shit. I don't want to wait till I'm 60 to realize how much I fucked up by not fucking up. I don't like this path of life. I want to be more than the mother and the whatever the world wants. But I'm not sure who I want to be.
And you see, that's the problem. I'm stuck in this endless loop of life, become someone but who? Well I'll find out what I want to be, and then I'll have no idea how to make it the fuck there. I mean 17 year old Olive Darrow from Who-gives-a-shit isn't destined for greatness. And I guess that's the problem, I want to be greatness I want to be more than this.
How selfish I guess, but in a life like this I guess you have to be selfish to get an ounce out of anything. It just sucks getting to where you want, the real issue is how you get there. You can't go the route of being nothing but a doormat and a nice person. But, you also can't go along being a total dick, so how do you make it?
I guess you want to know, well I'll tell you how. You don't.
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A/N: hey guys it's my first book hope you like it.
