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There was a girl once. She was brave in her fear and as awkward as she was outgoing. She lived her life one day at a time while she made plans, Big Plans, for her future. She laughed with abandon and let love fill her heart. She was wise beyond her years and felt blessed to have learned her lessons so young, albeit the hard way.

There was a girl once. She was broken and broken-hearted from one too many falls along the way. She failed at happiness but didn’t quite have misery figured out, either. She was wise beyond her years and it was a curse.

There was a girl once. If there was one thing she wanted, it was peace of mind, and if there was one thing you were sure to get it was a piece of her mind. The wheels in her head never stopped turning; the voices in her head never stopped screaming; her feet never seemed to stop moving.

There was a girl once. It was as if she always knew the right questions to ask and she always knew the answers; she always knew just want to say. She’d never admit that deep down, she didn’t know right from left or wrong. Who do you turn to when you’re wise beyond your years?

Writing my heart out

30-Day Letter Project

The concept is simple. You need to forget who they were so that you can remember who you are. You know that doubts fly fast. They come towards you like a bullet or an arrow or any other kind of projectile that is covered with speed and dripping with vengeance. You are more than likely fooled by a pretty face and a snappy response.

She picks the petals off the flowers that grow on the window sill. The geraniums brighten the darkest night. She pulls each petal and lets it fall to the floor. She never pulls a petal until the previous has hit the floor. She loosens her hair and it falls past her shoulders and down her back. It falls as randomly as the petals. She shakes her head and peers through the shades of brown and hazel in the strands of hair that cover her face. She stares out the window but for the time being it might as well be a mirror.

The world outside shakes when the thunder crashes. She shudders with each bolt of lightning. The electricity fires even faster than the synapse inside her brain. Her thoughts are slowed and her reactions are slower. The rain covers up so much. It blends the colors of the night into one steady hue. She stares out the window and the reflection in front of her echoes the words that stream out of her lips. The reflection speaks them clearly and the image is only blurred by the drops of rain.

It’s like a broken toy car. There are two wheels on one side and it spins in a circle when it’s wound up. This window is a mirror. She is like a broken toy. They both run until they are out of energy and end up in the same place they started. She screams out, “I don’t understand the way I work or why I work this way!” This mirror is a window. It shows a world inside.

You are dripping with vengeance. You are the flowers that grow. You are the one steady hue. You are the world inside. You are the pretty face. You are fooled… the geraniums brighten the darkest nights!

Originally posted Sunday, March 14, 2010 | By Kevin Matisyn

{image: superfantastic}

Writing my heart out

She looks up at you from the ground she’s fallen to so many times before. Her eyes are begging for more, her arms are reaching for more because you’re just never enough and yet you’re always too much for her to handle. An ironic twist of fate or something else just as inexplicable brought you two together but now neither of you knows why. Against your will or maybe your knowledge you kick her while she’s already down and she swears you’ll never do it again. There’s something about the misery you inflict upon her that makes her crawl back for more every time.

She knows it isn’t right and deep down, you do too. As much as you care for cleanliness you can’t stop digging deeper into the dirt. The muddiness is the best and worst thing in your life right now. She explores the world around her and much to her dismay, the best and worst thing about everybody else is that they’re not you. You both know it’ll never work but for some reason you both want to try anyway. You want it enough to almost actually do it, but in this world so full of lies and hurt, sometimes almost just isn’t enough; you’re just not sure if this time is one of those times.

You search for the answer through the wreckage of what could have been, or is it what should have been? The beauty of it all is that she knows the answer, she has all along, but she knows telling you will only lead to solitude. And she, like misery, loves company.

{photos: here and unknown}

Etc. Writing my heart out