A Study of an Enigma

'If you had to write something, from somebody else's view, but weaving medium-sized slivers of truths into it, what do you think it would be like?'
Well, Ashlie. You got your answer.
(Also, on a side note, why are 'i am the walrus' and 'i also like fried chicken' both tags that pop up? I mean, what?)

And she says "You are worthless."

This is a case study on whatever I deem necessary and/or applicable to the situation.

Well, not really. What I really wanted to do was throw a bunch of beautiful words at your head and see if you would stumble. If they would just whizz past you and rustle your hair, or if you would catch them or the meaning they hold.

Because that sentence holds different undertones for everyone.

But I'm not here to talk about you.

I'm not here to do anything.

I'm here because I want to be.

And I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to.


It's all in how you pitch a phrase.

Words are a weapon that should not always be utilized. However, sometimes they lack the impact to really make a dent in your resolve.

For instance, in my nightmare the other day, where my sister and I sat on these carpeted stairs (I even remember the stupid pattern on the burgundy carpet) she just sat there with this rather large pile of papers in her hands.

There were words.

There always are.

But these words were mine.

They were my sentences typed out by my hand, come from my brain.

And she held them, these words that could so easily embody my heart, and she criticized.

She bashed them and tore them apart, she mercilessly dissected them and told me, in that same calm, irrefutable voice, why my writing was so unshakeably, unsalvegeably bad.

It was irreparable. Irremediable.

And I woke up.

To you, this mere nightmare may not seem like such a sucker punch to the gut. But to me, it was everything.

Because sometimes my writing is the only thing I have left.

In time, I began to realize that it didn't matter. My sister chose to become disinterested in me. I was the boring one. I was the one who was more focused on the shading of someone's cheekbones, more focused on the missing piece of the puzzle, more focused on the pattern.

Because there had to be a pattern.

I used to have issues with people. My mother had to teach me facial expressions. I didn't understand, at first.

"But Mum, why can't they just say that they're angry or sad? It doesn't make sense." 

Those were words that would remain true for many years of my life.

I am not, really, a motive.

Everyone has a goal. They have things that they strive for. In the end, they are all motives.

Motives to themselves, motives to others.

I am not a motive.

I am not the missing piece.

I was always the solution.

But the puzzle doesn't exist yet.

The End

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