Wilting Flowers

An accursed middle age as written by a young teen.

The day is flaccid and lonesome. 

The blinding light seeps through my windows slowly and casts blighted shadows upon the barren walls, bland and without decor since I have left the overbearing wings of my parents. My tepid cup of coffee gathers dust that swirls as it lands, the first sign of life in the otherwise dormant world. 

Maybe the world is not dormant. Maybe it is just me who is still and constant in a lively world. 

If you looked out my window, you would see the yellowing grass, yet another reminder of how my livelihood has faltered since adulthood, it being permanent evidence of my lack of motivation. My yard is unkempt and chaotic, a depressing lack of color. A person with synesthesia might remark at the lack of flavor my house presents them. There are no flowers nearby despite the lingering presence of spring. And I doubt the perennials will grow even as the saccharine warmth of summer approaches. 

The yellow daffodils, once familiar in my childhood, will cease to exist in my adulthood. 

But if you looked further, you might see the other house down the winding road. Existing in the same neighborhood, but the polar opposite of what my house is like. Mine has decayed, ratty and grey, lacking the uppidy feel associated with the homes of my childhood in the affluent areas of Greenwich, attending a school which seems like it required an absurd amount of tuition now. 

The house is a mint-green, the color of an Altoid Can. I can almost smell the familiar scent of Colgate toothpaste just by the sight of the incriminating color. But this matters not.

Young children wearing clashed outfits and synthetic rubber wings of poor quality, hold wands pretending to be fairies on the freshly trimmed lawn. I can almost imagine their equally vapid conversation and a certain obliviousness of the world only associated with qualm-less childhoods. This callowness is unimaginable, simply incomprehensible to me. I doubt I have ever taken part in such foolishness despite how other adults state with confidence I probably have. I simply nod with acquiescence while knowing my mother would never have allowed me to participate. 

Perhaps it is jealousy. At my age, I should harbor my own kids now, but I have yet to experience a single romance. Maybe I would join in to the inane chatter of family and cook delightful meals for them, the responsibility of a mother. But my thoughts are fatuous. I know I would not melt my icy walls and rid the distance between myself and others. I have been banished to the deepest trenches of the abyss, the ladder of entry removed early on with no way to exit the bottomless pit. 

This is not what I imagined middle age would be. I have not expected to have already withered before coming of age. Perhaps I have reached my prime too soon, at the vapid age of 11, before the call of adolescence had made its way. 

Peter Pan would feel alternatively. The forsaken ability to never age and the opportunity to dawdle his time and press the rewind button on the errors of his ways over and over again is sure to have changed his perspective.

Perhaps I had expected more out of myself, born in a family, not of the cloying warmth associated with old women who hug way too much, but of a cold indifference and solo focus on their careers. 

As any other child I had wished to grow up. To gain independence and experiment with my life rather than remain in the tightly wielded reigns of my parents. To have joyous romances and settle down with a husband. But real life is not a Hollywood movie. Perhaps, the grass isn’t greener on the other side, only different. 

But why has my future crumbled? From one full of opportunity, flourish, and wealth many may never experience a pathetic existence, only barring the even more misfortunate, their souls and paths accursed and dimmed by the doing of Scotus. Perhaps I should be grateful, my failure and fall was not as deep as that of Alfred Wallace. Grateful that I did not fall off of Mt. Denali as he had, but merely a small hill in comparison. 

I ask, yet there is no question. My future has fallen by my own doing. My cold and brisk air of uncaring and overly caustic comments designated to push others away has done its job, but perhaps I did not want it to. My desire to stay lonesome has abated and there is nothing more I wish than to relay those asinine films to real life, and build a family, as is my duty to society. Perhaps I would prefer to not remain flaccid and lonesome, but take part in the mundane activities of daily life. But I know it is too late for salvation.

Author's Note

What do you think of my symbolism?
I am fourteen and have no idea what middle-age is like, but this is how I imagine it to be.
Hope you enjoy!

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Congratulations on a fine literary effort. It must be difficult to look forward in time to a possible future world of such dimensions, a closed perimeter so to say. I don't know anything about symbolism except I had a teacher once who said the most effective symbolism was the most undetectable. I suppose he meant it should be subtle.

I noticed the speech patters of the narrator. That may or may not be a good thing - that a reader should note strangeness in speech. I suppose if the author desired this effect it is a success and if she didn't it is a failure.

I thought the piece might have been too lavishly blessed with adverbs, but that's just a personal prejudice.
Thanks for sharing. Save story this and when you are a septuagenarian write a piece about being a teen. Be patient.

[Winwin4ever]

Thank you! This was very helpful, I can be a bit over the top with my vocab sometimes because it is improper to use many words in real life so it becomes prevalent in my writing. Thanks for telling me I need to tone it down. Yes this strangeness in speech is a little like how I think and how thoughts come to my mind. I like how you noticed my speech patterns. Thank you for reviewing, and it will help me improve!

[Delmar Cooper]

When I write a letter to a lawyer I speak (write) like a lawyer, to a professor I write like I believe a professor would speak. When you write general fiction your character must have a voice, but it cannot be the writer's voice it must be contrived to be believably real for that character as it will be heard by a reader. See Mark Twain's suggestions to a writer; he gave good advice. It can be easily found by Google.

[Winwin4ever]

Ok, thank you!

[Vertigo Cat1111]

You somehow managed to make this one even FAR better than your last one! The symbolism was amazing, the imagery was breathtaking and the details and words you used to describe the world around were truly wonderful. You have so much talent and if becoming an author is what you'd like to do, you're going to go very, very far. The colors, descriptions, everything about this was so, so good. It's entrancing and pulls you very deeply into it. This is truly amazing and a reason to be proud and confident in yourself. You deserve far more reviews.

[Winwin4ever]

Thanks for reviewing! I’m glad you enjoyed it! This time instead of using biblical/mythical allusions, I tried to use literary ones. It’s the first time and quite an experiment, but I’m glad it worked out!