words words words

sometimes i think i define myself by travel, by images and smells and romance, and clichés that are so sweet they just roll off the tongue. [and sometimes i think clichés can be the most beautiful things in the world.]

i write sad when i’m happy and happy when i’m sad, so i guess that means i’m usually happy [because sad stories are ohso fun to write]. but as soon as i start to fall apart i wonder is it wrong that i twist my words to give them a happy ending?

soul mates and true love and fate might just be [overused] ideas to some people, but to me they’re so real and so tangible and so there that i feel like if i tried hard enough i could touch them.

and i hatehatehate the fact that to really function with real people i have to become so jaded and cynical that i can barely even remember what i really believe; because before high school happened to me, when[never] someone gave me a compliment i accepted it with a smile. but now, oh, now there must be ulterior motives or mocking or just plain lies, because that girl’s obviously prettier.

sometimes i so wish that i could write mysteries, because mysteries and romances are the best kinds of books; and a combination of the two of them is enough to make me turn pages all night. [maybe pulp fiction is my biggest guilty pleasure.]

 

i want to know everything about stars and fairytales and folklore, to bury myself in ancient books and stare at the sky until i see the stars when i shut my eyes, because looking into the past makes me feel calmer than any pill or mantra or meditation ever could. [and god knows i’ve tried them.]

 

i wear lilac perfume so that i can smell flowers wherever i am [even though the best smell in the world is actually old books. but they don’t make a perfume for that]. and i love tiny little bottles and boxes, beautiful twisty sea glass and old old containers, because they can hold the specialest of special things.

 

i have a smudgy, inkstained old notebook that contains all my wishes about the future and a list of baby names, with the best ones circled. i know what i want [two girls and a boy] but what i need is to be a mother, and until my life is ready for that i’ll just have to wait, flipping through tattered old baby books i’ve had since i was seven.

i believe that the best kind of art is something that reaches inside you and tweaks something, changes you in a way that maybe you don’t even notice. and with every story that i tell i try to get better, to create something that can do that. and, despite what i said about twisting my words to create happy endings, i know that someday, someday i’ll tell a story that rings true, and it’ll be the happiest ending in the world.

 

[or am i just twisting my words again?]

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