Identity

This is just a small snippet I wrote in my journal for fun. :P Still willing to accept criticism though. (: Thanks for reading! Photo Credit: Jakob Wagner

The jewels bounced in the soft hollow between my sharply defined collar bones. The back of the blood-red dress was hidden by an immense cloak of blonde spirals. In the night, my heels would blend in with the atmosphere, mending themselves into the comfort of the color of evil. But within the dancing lights of the city, they reflected the colors of life all around them. Pink fragments lay exposed upon the surface of my once red lips, for I always forget that I can’t bite my lip when wearing the mask of another face. Anguish lingers in the air as everyone rushes out of the million dollar architectural giants that resemble diagrams of futuristic castles, with the build of the olden days, and the metallic colors of the unknown. Sirens screech in a violent torment, and no reaction comes from the sea of people strolling the avenue. The whispers of the wind caresses the surface of my arms, allowing me to take comfort in the idea that there is at least one memory of nature left in this robotic world full or robotic people with robotic thoughts. Slowly, my hands traced over the imperfect surfaces of the bumpy buildings, relishing the feeling of something built with trembling, human hands. When viewing my cover, one would see all of the galor that comes with wealth, but when analyzing my story, one would see the greed that comes with perfection. Before this night, wealth had always haunted me through the windows in my barriers.

The memory of my mother’s faded eyes scarred my memory, carrying on an eerie tune played on repeat to the point where I could’ve been driven to insanity. The creases upon her forehead grew deeper with confusion as she listened to the words coming from a metaphorically dead girl’s mouth.

“I’m tired, mom. I’m tired of having everything handed down to me and for once in my life, just once, I want to be able to earn something and I want to earn it fairly, not with money, not with bribery or lies or cheating. And yes, mom, I do remember all the good deeds you have performed for me but all of those deeds were at the expense of someone else’s paycheck. The reason people read books is because they don’t know what’s going to happen at the end, and right now I feel like I’ve read my entire life. Mom, I don’t want perfection anymore, I want unpredictable. Call me disheartening, call me stupid, or call me greedy. I want more.” I announced exasperatedly.

“Where do you think…”

It was too late, for the door had been shut and a new one opened. No words worth while would spew from that closed-mind, I knew this for my story is very much similar to that of Cinderella’s, an evil stepmother and a glass-slipper that fits just right. Tears pooled in the forest of my eyes, leaving the grass painted over with morning dew the very next day. Red, white, and blue lights blared all around me, but all I could really see was a path that had twists and turns in every direction.

Every artist has an explorer contained within themselves, why else would they chose to paint various aspects of life, rather than simply painting the same image over and over again? I wasn’t a painter, not even close. In fact, my paintings were performed with no distinction of any sorts, for they were only mere reflections of my feelings at war on a once blank canvas. Slowly, my feet became heavy as the everlasting trod progressed. Five hours of walking through a robotic society would eventually transform into the threatening mountains that ruled over the sky, and this is where most of my art would take place. The smell of smoke filled my lungs but I could already sense the arms of green giants tracing my skin, and the birds singing a joyous tribune in the silhouette of the thick trunks of the giants, as the shadows of leafs created a pattern among the rich soil of the forests on the mountains.

Striding into the unknown would be considered the actions of the insane, but who could truly classify someone as insane, if the very definition of that word was created by another human being, who was not sure rather or not they were sane. My ordeal, was to break through the mold that society has created in order to limit us, I desired for people to see my work as a defiance to what might be considered perfection. Who could classify something as perfect, if the very definition of that word was created by an imperfect human being? I’ve always been obsessed with imperfections, for my life held few of them. Even as a child, I would marvel at the recovery a nimble dancer’s feet would make after a simple fail. Not once did I attend a concert for the entertainment, but rather for the assessment of mistakes that were marvelously created.

A slow smile gradually lit up the features of my face as dirt stained the edges of my once perfect dress. With every step, my heels left indents in the soil, turning the shined heels into nature’s story. My camera lightly bounced against my thigh, the black strap leaving marks upon my tanned shoulder. The more I elevated, the more the coldness took over me in a greedy rush. All around me, green giants swayed to the whispered tunes of the wind, until there came a clearing that would be the landscape to change my life. The beautiful greens blended into the deep blue hues, and the picture held a slight blur, as if it were a water painting. And by that small blue pond filled with flashes of orange and silver, stood the ghost of a girl, tall and petite at the same time. Her red dress twirled as the wind nipped with it’s fingers at the frayed edges. The jewels adorning her neck sparkled within the sunlight, and the cloak of blonde curls was so thick, it almost hid her sharp cheekbones, and the plumpness of her cherry stained lips, painted with specks of imperfect shades of pink.

For hours, I stayed there watching the ghost dance with the lilacs surrounding the young ocean, and I watched her stumble with every step she took. Hours passed, and the cold implanted itself within me, but still, I observed the mysterious creature before me until the sun was put to rest within it’s safe-haven.  The red, now completely eliminated from the colors of my lips, was a simple cherry stain on my rose colored cheeks that burned from the bitter touches of the wind. Gradually, the tremors increased as they do whenever an earthquake occurs. My lips went dry, and the moon shone bright upon the ghost girl, and that was the last image I saw before everything was covered in darkness, and my lips represent a desert’s lifeless aurora.

The picture was never taken.

Author's Note

Accepting all criticism, just be nice. :) The thing with my writing is that I often get lost in the details and use too much figurative language, at least that's how I feel, is there anything you guys think is over explained or should be taken out? Thanks! :)