This is what I wrote in my Writing Class, out of loneliness of being overlooked by the girls in my class.
I just can't relate to them, even though we're all going to be teachers. There's 40 of us,(no guys) and I don't have a close friend there.
I volunteered to read. I was stumbling and stopping and everything.
When I was finished, I felt so embarrassed that my hands were shaking.
I got such positive comments on the Scribophile(another writing site) forum that I decided to post it, Word for word, without tweaking it.
It was handwritten, and we had 20 minutes to write, and this was what I came up with. I couldn’t look at this piece for 3 days after reading it, but the people on Scribophile helped me be confident to read it again.
Hopefully soon I will be able to appreciate this piece, but for now I’m just hanging it up, waiting for the paint to dry.
I feel so inspired that it seemed like all of my ideas and plans whirled up in my head, so my head is slightly hurting. It's like a compressed hope, a little child ready to bound.
But a mother (or a father perhaps) is clutching on to that hand, hissing for them not to run, that they would only end up falling and getting hurt,
from a scraped knee to a concussion that last into an endless coma, wondering if you'll ever come to, and if you do come to, feeling numb and a little pain all at once,
you'll internally resolve never to run again. Maybe you'll never run again, if I take the risk. So the hope remains, still, trusting her parent.
But I still wonder. Maybe I should, the world looks so enticing.
Colorful, flecks of rainbow, casting shimmers in my eyes, my ears dancing to the sound of opportunity sweet and reverent, bold and tangible. I so want it, I really want it.
But I don't know if I want it enough. Once I let this hope go, I don't know where it would land, with a thud or a plop or a splat or just endless noise of nothingness.
Maybe I should just go one step at a time, and then once I hear a shriek I can quickly step back. Two steps back! Yeah! You know what, maybe it is better, better, to hold on to hope.
It is comfortable here, and familiar, warm and safe. Sure, it's a little bland here, when it's whites and browns and greys, but I can't get hurt here.
But actually I can.
I get hurt, from knowing of where I COULD go and knowing where I COULD be, but I don't move or move fast or far or bold enough. Time is of the essence, and it's killing me softly.
I cry out, I reach, but I withdraw quickly. I just--I don't--the pain must hurt more intensely there.
Like, it hurts here, but these may be mere scrapes while OUT THERE could be possible injuries, possible death.
And I will have to be accountable for certain things, certain responsibilities that I may not want to face.
Because once I face them, and make that mistake, I will have to say that it's my fault, and this time it WOULD be my fault. I already blame myself, for many things, even things I can't control.
It makes me comfortably sedated, in a way, that I can control something, and if I'm not entirely helpless.
But at the same time, if I let go of my hope, I will have to encounter real responsibilities, and can I really handle that?
That's the question that keeps one awake at night, that makes me stop wondering and wandering.
If people reject me, can I handle it?
If girls ignore me, can I handle it?
If a guy gets mad at me, can I handle it?
If I have to pay for everything, can I handle it?
If people I love don't love me back,
Can I handle it?
I don't know. I don't know if I'm...ready.
Do I have to be ready enough to let go of my hope? Does it matter about readiness, and maturity? Do I have to remain in inadequacy to mature, and once I feel that I'm ready, I venture out?
Or do I thrust myself in the beautiful dangers, expecting to mature there? What would make me a better woman?
Is it better that I should remain a virgin, not necessarily sexually, but spiritually, mentally, or should I throw it away to truly grow up?
I don't know.
All I know is that I want it but I'm scared that I want it, because I don't know if I can handle what I want. I look down at hope, who keeps tugging my hand...
Making my arm hurt.