I don't think I can really ink myself into words the way an author prints his characters from his blood, gives them eccentricities and flaws of their own, and they spring out from prose like gorgeous butterflies and flowers. I just feel too nonplussed and alien too often, as if the air tastes too disparate on my taste buds, or the room I choose to ensconce myself in is home but not. I try to reach out for more words that could concisely articulate the way I am and become, but I can't, and there are always other people's words that do concoct me into being. And I feel too much like a machine. If I could thread my tears into sentences, I would, and I would sleep on them - a collected ocean of bewilderment and pain I hope not to drown in - because what I am beams through my pores but I am lost at sail with little to treat myself to.
I itch at myself like an irritating denouement that claws at the classy lass in the front row. My set is crazy and intriguingly perplexing and, actually, downright scary because nobody wants shows splayed out messy.
Emotions are pendulously reaching out in pantomime and non-pantomime masks and gloves, eerily mysterious. An actor runs pell-mell into her lover, but alas the curtians draw and the clock strikes the audience's heart with brash care. The lights flicker erroneously and people murmur in bemusement. Accusations of an erratically disappointing end runs through the night. And by the morrow, critics have published the unbelievable truth in their critiques.
The lass gasps in her vermilion blush, and things like these are embarrassingly unsatisfying and unwanted as she stalks away with only the imprint of a disgusting end in her head, and papers of blue ink tumble recklessly into the streets. To think she expected a grander end!
And to think she was so rapt in her seat! She had taken notes that glided fluently and mellifluously out till somebody struck the wrong chord, and now the news flies unlike her fresh reports that are left to dry negligently in the summer sun. People either choose to read the newspaper articles apathetically, as if stopping by only to read the first line with only a pint of interest, or confusingly.
The latter is a majority that sits on a sun-drenched table, and has been planning to take a night to watch the drama or has already ridden through the drama in some other town. These people let themselves gasp in the billowing steam of their coffee mugs. They care, even if not too much. They are famished and voracious for at least a more thorough and reasonable explanation for this mishap. They crave bouts of reasons from the production's personage - the actors, the director, anybody.
Here is my mistake. Take notice - I myself am not a denouement. I am still here, fourteen, earthly, and breathing, and prone to illness and accidents and naivette and whatever a teenager my age can catch, and will still be prone to obtaining when a teenager no more. I am not a show and I am not for show. People don't pay entrance fees to see me, and people don't write about me in rooms like I try to. I do not perform for them. But I am human, and I believe I consist of universes that hold stories I can't imagine, and I try to pour them out as soon as possible although I know this isn't the end. If I think there is an end, the end is not what I think it seems. It is a beginning.
So I release these feelings and curiosities out. Oh, I try my best. Let's say the process of wringing them out is over for a while. I publish, because I want my future self to know that these are how her fourteen self feels. These are all in text, but to me they aren't just text, or language, or vocabulary. This problematic flow of thoughts are coalesced from furor and envy and anxiety, and the aspring part of me crawls in this fetal position, and it is always too late for me to know that what is eating me up is myself.
Two of those paragraphs end in italicized words. And this is the comparison, or the similarity rather: I, myself, can be anybody. I can just be the memory of a face, a stranger, to you. You, who I am presuming is not related to me by blood, can detach yourself from my frustration and my garbling of my own actions. But I, a soul that dreams, am glued to this mind and the protocol of mundane life, unless something or someone changes it drastically as to twist it (which, I know, is highly improbable). I am stapled to multiplying series of connection and waking up and falling asleep and traversing through school. And as I write, here, in the strokes of time, I am my own audience. I regard you and I know you are part of everything and anything you choose to be part of; hey, you're reading this right now! But I am that stern part of the audience that is open but unmistakenly strict in the criticizing of the art of expressing oneself. I tense upon my own scrutinizing look.
I am the aspiring character in my blood (although it may just be a penchant and a penchant only), and the part that carries these cells? The critic. The entirety of this entry may as well just have been fueled by my bursting frustration for myself. I analyze myself too much, maybe, but that is what carries this whole parade throughout the streets of this blog. When an engine coughs out its last breath and the parade screeches terribly into the disarray of a stop, that is when I stop.
But the show must go on, right?
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