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moka fleur | d1 | FIN
Jan 14, 2015 11:56:24 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jan 14, 2015 11:56:24 GMT -5
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[attr="class","mName"]moka fleur
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[attr="class","mSubLines"]and so 'x' marks the spot
[attr="class","mTag"]twelve || female || district one || odair
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[attr="class","mtext"]The sun has stained my hair, it's rays flows down from my scalp to just past my shoulders. It's long and light and perfectly straight. I think that hair is fascinating, so fascinating I often find myself twirling my fingers into an endless, whirling hole of spiraling locks. My face is quite chubby, but the rest of my body isn't. My sister often gets worried that I'm too thin and fragile, much like a porcelain doll which catches my eye each time I walk past a certain shop. My eyes are glassy; they are the whole world. Sometimes I just stare into them, and stare deep into my mind and soul and think of all the happy memories I have been blessed with in my early years. However, my eyes aren't bright. They are a dull, dusty brown like a country track you might find along the side of a field. Walking along a bleak field with my family would be the ideal day.
My peachy skin is white. A sprinkling of winter's snow on a sloping roof. It's mostly clear, though sometimes I suffer with a rash. It's annoying, and it's itchy. Every time I try to ignore it, the sudden urge to give in to it bursts into my head like a child at a birthday party. I wear my skin with some pride. At times, I cover it up. Facing the embarrassment of having a skin problem is not my cup of tea, although I'm advised to air it - which will apparently make it go away. I hope that one day it will magically disappear, and leave my with truly enchanting skin. I hope.
Height is an issue. I understand that I'm only twelve, and that isn't the ripest of ages, although I do want to be taller - if that's the only thing I achieve in my lifetime. Being picked on for being the shortest in my class isn't particularly fun. In fact, it's border-line annoying. Some of the names they call me are rude and turn my usually blank expression into a jigsaw of tense muscles and a firm frown.
There are a number of things that hold me back from making friends. My number one reason is my shyness. My first impressions of someone are normally very off. Faces and smiles can be misleading, which you'd think I'd have learnt to understand by now. But each time someone flashes a decent, friendly smile in my direction I assume it is a reflection of their personality. It's made me become skeptical of everyone around me. I know that I only properly feel comfortable with my family, for they are the only ones who understand me like I do.
And my array and filled pages of misleading thoughts has left me confused. Around new people - I'm scared. The feeling of someone letting a large net full of brightly coloured butterflies takes flight in my stomach. My stomach churns around and around in circles. It makes me feel ill, so I end up acting rather strangely around strangers. I just smile and hope that the jumble of words inside my mind string themselves together in time to make a plausible sentence. Most of the time, I blurt out useless nonsense. But, there are those rare times where I manage to find the words to give someone a good first impression.
I like to think my intelligence is the thing that lifts me up into a position higher than most people my age. I was never a child prodigy or "gifted", it just all started to fit in. All the pieces slotted into my brain perfectly, and everything around me just began to make complete sense. My parents are proud of my vocabulary, and I am too. I assume its the piles of hours they make us sit in school, but I like to think it's just my mind developing far better and faster than everyone else's. Not to boast, though.
A story of an abandoned house where a single girl, my age, lived alone is the root of my fear of loneliness. She lived in a large, wooden house in the middle of the countryside - isolated from the rest of the world. And her life was so bleak, a piece of lined paper with no lines, an essay with no words, a sky with no stars. All that she did was sad. It scared me. One day, I could be in that story, with nothing but air and vast green pastures stretching for miles all around. I can't begin to think of what being alone would feel like. I like to assure myself the story will never come true, so I make sure I've always got someone there; someone I can rely on and trust. That person is Sana. I can run into her welcoming arms and hold onto her for as long as I like. It comforts me.
I've never understood why they referred to me as 'the strange one'. Perhaps, it's just their jealousy rising to their heads, bursting to find its way out. I'd like to think it's jealousy, for the thought of my personality being 'weird' is an enigma. I respect someone else's opinion, even if I disagree and they are clearly wrong. Although, the source of the phrase is probably because of the few words I speak. I don't want to be wrong. I'm a perfectionist, and the mere thought of doing something incorrectly disgusts me. Hence, why I like to stay quiet until I'm forced to speak, or have something prepared and decent to say.
Poetry and stories have always been a keen interest of mine. All poetry is wonderful, but I only read books which aren't scary. And by scary, I mean ones that mess with your mind. Psychological thrillers. I steer clear of them because I don't want my innocent mind to be touched by the finger of a broken soul. But poetry; each and every type amazes me. I like to write my own, about adventures I go on in my dreams and in my imagination. One of my goals is to publish them, into my own book. Another, is more serious. I'd like to start my own adventure; write the story of my life. And with each blink, I waste a moment that could have been interesting.
My peachy skin is white. A sprinkling of winter's snow on a sloping roof. It's mostly clear, though sometimes I suffer with a rash. It's annoying, and it's itchy. Every time I try to ignore it, the sudden urge to give in to it bursts into my head like a child at a birthday party. I wear my skin with some pride. At times, I cover it up. Facing the embarrassment of having a skin problem is not my cup of tea, although I'm advised to air it - which will apparently make it go away. I hope that one day it will magically disappear, and leave my with truly enchanting skin. I hope.
Height is an issue. I understand that I'm only twelve, and that isn't the ripest of ages, although I do want to be taller - if that's the only thing I achieve in my lifetime. Being picked on for being the shortest in my class isn't particularly fun. In fact, it's border-line annoying. Some of the names they call me are rude and turn my usually blank expression into a jigsaw of tense muscles and a firm frown.
There are a number of things that hold me back from making friends. My number one reason is my shyness. My first impressions of someone are normally very off. Faces and smiles can be misleading, which you'd think I'd have learnt to understand by now. But each time someone flashes a decent, friendly smile in my direction I assume it is a reflection of their personality. It's made me become skeptical of everyone around me. I know that I only properly feel comfortable with my family, for they are the only ones who understand me like I do.
And my array and filled pages of misleading thoughts has left me confused. Around new people - I'm scared. The feeling of someone letting a large net full of brightly coloured butterflies takes flight in my stomach. My stomach churns around and around in circles. It makes me feel ill, so I end up acting rather strangely around strangers. I just smile and hope that the jumble of words inside my mind string themselves together in time to make a plausible sentence. Most of the time, I blurt out useless nonsense. But, there are those rare times where I manage to find the words to give someone a good first impression.
I like to think my intelligence is the thing that lifts me up into a position higher than most people my age. I was never a child prodigy or "gifted", it just all started to fit in. All the pieces slotted into my brain perfectly, and everything around me just began to make complete sense. My parents are proud of my vocabulary, and I am too. I assume its the piles of hours they make us sit in school, but I like to think it's just my mind developing far better and faster than everyone else's. Not to boast, though.
A story of an abandoned house where a single girl, my age, lived alone is the root of my fear of loneliness. She lived in a large, wooden house in the middle of the countryside - isolated from the rest of the world. And her life was so bleak, a piece of lined paper with no lines, an essay with no words, a sky with no stars. All that she did was sad. It scared me. One day, I could be in that story, with nothing but air and vast green pastures stretching for miles all around. I can't begin to think of what being alone would feel like. I like to assure myself the story will never come true, so I make sure I've always got someone there; someone I can rely on and trust. That person is Sana. I can run into her welcoming arms and hold onto her for as long as I like. It comforts me.
I've never understood why they referred to me as 'the strange one'. Perhaps, it's just their jealousy rising to their heads, bursting to find its way out. I'd like to think it's jealousy, for the thought of my personality being 'weird' is an enigma. I respect someone else's opinion, even if I disagree and they are clearly wrong. Although, the source of the phrase is probably because of the few words I speak. I don't want to be wrong. I'm a perfectionist, and the mere thought of doing something incorrectly disgusts me. Hence, why I like to stay quiet until I'm forced to speak, or have something prepared and decent to say.
Poetry and stories have always been a keen interest of mine. All poetry is wonderful, but I only read books which aren't scary. And by scary, I mean ones that mess with your mind. Psychological thrillers. I steer clear of them because I don't want my innocent mind to be touched by the finger of a broken soul. But poetry; each and every type amazes me. I like to write my own, about adventures I go on in my dreams and in my imagination. One of my goals is to publish them, into my own book. Another, is more serious. I'd like to start my own adventure; write the story of my life. And with each blink, I waste a moment that could have been interesting.
