She is an ordinary girl with an imaginative mind, inspired with memories of past and present, future aspirations that she reaches for, but is too short to obtain.
She waits for the whispers of her fingers to begin dancing across her keyboard, taking over the creative stance for her. She hopes that they can sing to a ballet that people will find amusing, entertaining, or romantic because she wants their ode to be blissful and full of beauty. But as she types and tries to bring out a story within the words that are edged through her mind, she struggles and begins to stop — who will read the works of someone with such an ordinary life? What has she, to sing to the world that has not already been harmonized with?
Being a writer is the most important thing in her life. She wonders, if she dies before she publishes a best selling novel, will she regret not being tenacious enough? Her thoughts can not be ordered or forced into spaces they don't belong to, but when she begins writing she feels like her world has gone away, that she's become a character in a scene that has been kept locked in the chambers of her mind.
So she fights through stereotypes and begins preaching the peace of her identity, a piece that is so relevant but so often overlooked. Her accents are prominent and pretentious, wanting to be something she is not — but her work is beautifully creative and clever.
An ordinary girl with a complicated mind, muddled with memories of past and present, future aspirations that she reaches for, but is too short to obtain.
She begins writing while the sun dazzles the skies above, clouds snickering with the king of ghosts and life. She continues to write as the moon sighs with the oceans, who have infatuated her without a doubt. Again and again, she repeats this pattern but comes with little to show. Her writing is just a sporadic message of poetic euphemisms, confusing words that overlap with one another — syntax that makes no sense. The wind blows her thoughts away and replaces them with yesterday's homework and a load of coffee to ease the stress.
An ordinary girl in need of a box to stand on, that will help her touch those dreams that she ponders about with endless desire.
The wind brings a breeze that shrinks her time, and the days begin to look like months, and the months years. Her assignments travel through her writing, laced in between her sentences, making them rigid and stale. After her endless years of polishing her language, she is finally successful in a work of prose — but gone with her age is her melody.
She scans her work with vivid, excited eyes as the sun rises at dawn. Dusk approaches solemnly, brows furrowed in worry as he watches the woman still staring at her screen. When did her melody leave? Why is there no more poetry left between her words? Where did the colors of sunset in her language go?
An ordinary woman chasing an endless dream, suffering beneath the ordeal of imagination.
