Yup, this is how awesome my hair was. Now it's all shaved off.
Truly, I don't know who I am. I wish I did, but, I'm apparently just like any other teenager. I'm comprehending the ways of life with new wisdom each day. Experiencing things with ever-seeking knowledge-gaining eyes. I converse with my peers about our knowledge of life, and gain more from them, as they get from me. And to express myself, I use art. Well, with my limited skill. I wish I could say I'm open-minded, but I'm just a two-dimensional observer. Perceiving, trying to soak up as much knowledge as I can.
And then after writing such a deep passage, I feel so... two-dimensional. That, that paragraph is all I truly am. All anyone is. But then again, who am I to say such things? It all might just be nothing.
But here we are, you're left with a superficial girl. Whilst nails and blonde hair don't matter to me, stereotypes such as favourite colour, favourite animal still leave me boxed. I'm a sad excuse for someone who'd like to call themself an artist. I wish I could find a way to describe a person without using such typical ways. To think, at one point in time I would have thought myself to be very open-minded.
I would like to be open to new ideas, but my mind works in strange ways and if you present me with one, I won't let myself accept it because it's your idea or belief. I'm also like that with books.
Ah, books, my beloved friends from once upon a time. The peers I spend my time talking to have all hidden in books. I am no different. However, I trust and respect books, physically and emotionally. They deserve to be treated nicely, for they have treated me oh so very kindly. I have an etiquette I'm devout upon for my books. Never bend the spine, never fold a page, never rip, etc. My peers just see them as objects to read in any sort of way, then forget about. Remember the story, not the book.
Journals, however, are... infinitely different. Instead of hiding, being protected, I make myself vulnerable to those blank pages. I tell them my secrets, and hope to not be betrayed. In a way, my journals are like people. Can't be too sure who to trust, but you have to take risks in order to learn, right? Alas, I bury my secrets into the journals. And even deeper so, the secrets are hidden behind intellect. I write my notes for school in my journals, but no one looks through school notes anymore, right? Ultimately, my journals reflect my mind and its mundane-ness.
All abstract thoughts comes from reality. Reality, different personalities within ones mind, death, and love. How cliché. How... normal and despicable. I envy those who can come up with things so detailed and out there. The things people can create just blows me away. Be it with any type of medium. Paint, pencil, digital, tattoo, clay, marble, wood, metal, film, dance, acting, language... it's all so beautiful.
But what am I talking about? I'm just a fourteen year old who's searching for myself. If I find her, I'll tell you, yeah?
Alas, I'm gone. Do you really care about this person? Nah, and that doesn't bother me. But, if you're actually here and reading, I'll tell you I don't care. I'm not a girl; but simply keep that description for memory's sake. Call me what you will, but I know what I am. I hope you can deal with that, and if you can't, that's not my problem.
I am simply a burden the world takes on, like every other organism. What I do is insignificant, and I feel what I wish. It's not like people try to stop me, really. And I move on from nothing, moving on from moving on. A constant cycle of vicious goings-on. And you'll move on from this page, perhaps message me. But it all amounts to the passing of time, one way or another. Good luck, elftowner, see yah on the flip side.