The Making of a Cynic

For all the shot-down dreams you took time to build.

She never believed in fairy tales. Never let herself be fooled by sparkles and stardust. The delicately curved and silver ornaments on royalty's heads in fantasy books were delicately formed illusions (a whole world built on lies) in her eyes. Despite this, people called her a reader, a poet, a dreamer-- but still a cynic (without the dark, depressing past). Which is also why she hated clichés.

 

She always found truth in words, though. When nothing at all seemed to make sense, she wrote. It didn't matter how or where (keyboard and a computer, pen and a crumpled piece of paper, marker and used napkins, chalk on side-walk), as long as she was doing it-- letting the letters carve their own stories (her stories). She'll just write and write and write about anything and everything that comes to mind, and when she finally steps back and the little vertical line blinks at her when-and-wherever she is, she'll read it over and smile-- she knows (and doesn't care) that the writing is not perfect. It's not like other authors' writing; she doesn't quite know how to drench her words in thoughts and feelings and soul and laughter and tears and raw emotion and just pure life yet, but she likes to think that some day she will. (So while little girls dreamt of princes and castles, she dreamed of words and meaning).

 

She likes to think that one day she'll go out and breath in the night city air (no matter how polluted, or dirty, or stuffy) and sit beneath the streetlights that blot out the stars overhead, pencil that is just burning with all the qualities of words she had lacked before and a piece of paper ripped from her math notebook in hand.

 

And that's all she'd need. All she would need to prove them wrong. All she would need to prove that words are not fairy tales. Words are important. Words are all we need. Words are communication, emotion, friends, enemies, music, philosophy, science, good, bad, salvation, hope, thoughts, secrets, laughter, tears, melancholy, dreams, chaos, bliss, knowledge, ignorance, love, hate, power, weakness, darkness, light, pride, confidence, sanity, insanity, sweet, bitter, (bittersweet), reality, fiction, faith, pain, freedom, present, past, future, a true god, life. Words are betwixt and between-- they may appear in just about any form you can possibly think of.

 

Right now, though… She needs to trace and retrace her disappearing words over and over and over again just for a light indention to show up. But one day, they'll begin to show. They'll glow like a bright neon sign as tall as sky scrapers and reach over clouds and stars and distant galaxies (only to those who'd take the time to listen, though). The moment will definitely come-- she depends on it. The anticipation makes her insides feel like she is all electricity and adrenaline and pounding hearts and quick pulses throbbing like raw paper cuts.

 

But the cruel, bitter reality is eating away at her insides like a virus to her perception. Because the truth is; while the little girls dreaming of fairy tales moved on with the too-fast spinning of the Earth, she stood firmly planted on her childhood dreams, shrinking away from the harsh reality of life (beautiful if you look in the wrong direction, cold, ugly, cruel, and unfair if you look the right way).

 

She still remember the times when her parents would play part in the illusion. Feeding her sickly-sweet lies about her being able to be whatever she wanted to be. (They had said they'd be there for her.) Now they decided to get intimate with technicalities.

 

They told her that words don't pay the bills, words don't feed you, words don't give you a place to sleep, bathe, or be.

 

She finds it sad. Sad that the world has to revolve around "it's what pays" instead of one's wants, dreams, and desires.

 

But as she sits at the breakfast table, doing the job of shoving her lack of depth and skills of her words to her face alone, she realizes she is just another girl with an Icarus-complex. She'll never be the best-selling author like she'd so desperately had always wanted to be.

 

"It's not something you want to do," her father says, voice sure and firm-- the voice of the business man he decided would pay. "You know what's right. You've always had a good head on your shoulders." He forces a smile and pats her on the shoulder.

 

She leaves her bowl and dreams in the sink.

 

(Here's a confession: Give me reality, and I'll cling to ambiguity; hang onto hope. This is why the only thing I consciously try to be is pessimistic.)

Author's Note

I do realize I repeat some of my lines from other stories/poems in this, etc, etc. If I really like a line, I might repeat it.

And second; no, this isn't personal experience. I mean, I did have this feeling with me and art (drawing, etc), just not as intense... Hope you enjoy!