Storybook

This is me.

Please read it with great care, as slowly as the sun drops down from the sky.

It contains none of my likes nor none of my thoughts, because that's not who people are, or at least that's not who I am. Here is a place that I am to share about me, except I know nothing of who I am. No one can see their own nose, or smile upon their face.

That's for other people.

This is who I am to me.

I'm an imposter from a land of dulled emotion where life is merely a silver platter away, poisoned by a contentness of what is and what will be, cheated from grief and free of pain.

I'm trivial, filled with nonsense and giggles, pretending that I can relate to grand experiences, while sitting upon a couch burdened by the simple and the absolute.

In everything I write there is a piece of me and a piece of my world and a whole cake of a reality that I've never lived, and of pain that is minute. Some people say that in it there is truth, some people just think it is beautiful, and I've had one person say that I always make them think in a way they never could before. For this, I am grateful.

But I've found I have no voice in the face of words such as 'talent' or 'purpose' or adjectives that describe my words as 'incredible' or its synonyms. I find myself giddy to have done something right, but their words are coatings on an imposters skin.

I am no one.

I am the person on the bench beneath the drizzle grey sky, swaddled by a simple brown coat that kisses my neck and drips right below my finger tips, staring at the clouds in silent contemplation. I am the person who no one believes when they state that, given the chance, they wouldn't change anything they've done, no matter how foolish or hurtful, because that's who they are and that's who they'll always be. I'm the girl that stares at the stars and grins, not because she knows she will reach them but because she knows she doesn't have to. I'm the creature undisturbed by jeers and laughter, blank in the face of the bully, wearing not a mask but my own skin as I respond ''So? I'm me.''

I'm that one girl walking through the crowd who slips past with a viscous gait and a whiddling hum, unaffected by stress, uncaring of money or grades or the views of others upon them. I'm the drizzle in a storm of society, with a simple attitude of ''I don't really care,'' despite the warnings of George Orwell or similar visionaries who tell me I have to, because I'm the future.

But all I do is nod and hum and forget.

I'm that one white cirrus cloud in a sea of stormy grey ones, somehow cheating the standards of life, in that I'll find trouble and emotional pain in this land of give and take. And I laugh and I chuckle as everyone else feels tears dripping, molasses like, down their drawn faces.

I'm an imposter, plagued by self doubt, unable to handle praise because to grasp praise you have to be sincere with your abilities, and I lie to myself because I'm afraid to define who I am.

I'm that one girl on the wooden bench beneath the drizzle grey sky, striving to reach goal after goal but unable to understand why they want to reach them, so I stare at the sky and wave my feet like a child, because it feels good to find pleasure in the simplest of actions.

If I always try to get better, always try to turn weakness into strength, always try to embrace who I am and develop it further, one day something might happen. One day I might change someone. One day I might have a chance to be someone- not a face for people to love, nor an image to be admired, but a deed of creation that I can cower behind and yet still be proud, as a cupcake holder is discarded in order to eat the cupcake.

I'm no one.

The girl on a bench, with a coat caressing her fingertips, staring into the sky and wondering how she could shape the clouds with simple words.

I'm me.

And I hope I always will be.