Firstly
I sit down to write and at once feel a sigh leave my body.
Perhaps it is the fact that I have chosen to willingly consider my thoughts and feelings for today - I seem to enjoy my days much more without it. It is as though once I start to question things, long word-shaped tendrils wrap and envelop me in a most self-indulgent depression. For it is not genuine - and hasn’t been for a while - since when I do so, I simply loathe and groan and pity whatever I can. It is pathetic, and afterward I cannot manage to feel even an inch of sympathy for myself.
I itch my pen between my fingertips. Not today.
But a curious mood has bloomed inside me, and now I know I am doomed. ‘Youth’ something, I intended to deem this piece: A reflection on my younger years, a picture of my swirling mind encapsulated and encoded on a smooth sheet of paper.
Yet unravelling such stories only fill me with further disgust. Such trivial unimportances meant all the world to me! I would feel silly to write such things down on paper, with the brazen energy of such an unrespectable mind placed beside them. I think of my younger self as a separate person, and if I were to go back in time, I would shake her roughly by the shoulders.
Even now, as I recall her, a cross frown shapes my face.
Unimportances. I roll the word around on my tongue, thinking how pleasant it would sound read aloud. It reminds me of classical literature, a certain feeling most accurately captured with the poise and propriety of a girl most displeased with something or other. Oh, no wonder people wrote books! For if you could not paint, you could share with others your ideas, your turmoil, your anguish and your strife. And I suppose, in such a time, these people had reasons to.
I’m made shameful again. Does my ego know no bounds? To compare such languid ramblings of a modern-day inconvenience against the authors of such beautiful classical literature. Years upon years of experience, hardship and the most awful life you could possibly lead are what shaped such magnificent works.
I rise from my desk at once, cheeks flushed with shame. To believe that a silly young girl could pen down a work to rival such intelligent authors. To be so self-abosrbed to even think I could surpass others! I won’t even bother. I’ll throw the most childish fit. I refuse to continue this any longer.
