Written words on the wind {Open}

[ali]

I was born to late into a world that doesn't care

Stupid. Rubbish. Waste of Time. All these words and more swimmed through my head as I stormed along the embankment of the river that ran through District 5. Polluted by boats and soot, the river was an onyx black mirror that reflected and distorted the image of me storming along its edge. The words my class mates had spewed from their mouths after hearing the peice of writing I had wrote for homework felt like 20 knives stabbing me at once. Each ploughing deep into my soul- threatening to tear the dream I possesed apart.

I had always had this. This- verbal abuse for being a writer. People just didn't understand how my world ticked- how it ticked around the art of writing. It was something I had loved for all my life and it was some what of a curse on me. People didn't look to kindly to writing especially in a District where choosing the right career sent you on your way to greatness or despair. Sadly, becoming a writier in District 5 meant despair. People knew how to read they just didn't. THey believed that reading a book was almost a sin to do. That books were just futher control by the Capitol; my writing may be far from that but that didn't change anything.

I stopped 3/4 of the way down the river before turning to face it- picking up a rock and hurling it as far as I could do so- letting out a loud yell of sorts. The rock tumbled through the air before landing with a 'plop' into the black water. As the stone sunk I stared at the place where it had left the upper world, and fallen into the darkness never to return to its home on the land. As it sunk and my yell of rage ecohed through the world, I felt something else erupting from my chest. It was a sob. I began crying as the lump in my throat seemed to burst. I didn't understand why people didn't understand me and my work. I couldn't understand. Slowly I fell backwards onto my bum, covering my face with my hands as I cried in a most un man like fashion. ever