I Actually Remembered What I was Going to Say


I have no idea what most people think when they first look at me. Probably just the generic “shy,” which for some reason bothers me greatly. It’s not that I hate being shy…I just hate it when that’s all people think of me. All my life, that’s all I have been thought of or described by or remembered by…even at both my graduations that was my big description. They never knew that someday I wanted to be a great author or an animal rehabilitator–that I held momentous stories within my head and more knowledge than a college-level grammar tome, or that, as a young child, I used to run for hours to catch stray animals to take them to a rehabilitator that would help them live and find happiness again. No one knew, for I could never tell them.

Maybe…maybe this is why I became a writer…

 

Even now…what do people think of me?

I knew all the answers in baking class, but whenever someone would ask me a question or whenever I would tell my team they were doing something wrong, they’d look at me like I was speaking Latin. Do I intimidate others? Am I even human? Do I even exist? Am I invisible? Is this all a dream?

Sigh. Enough of this folderol. [crumples page and begins a new one]

One thing most people don’t know about me is that I do not march to the beat of my own drummer…I’m practically my own orchestra that exists on an entirely different alternate universe than everyone else’s. Is this why I have no friends? Or is it because I say that and then the people who think they’re my friends think I don’t care or–Ugh. Quit it, me!!!

I have 3 parts to my personality (no, I don’t have a mental disorder…Ah, who am I kidding? I probably do): writing, baking, and violin.

Writing is me. I am writing. Writing will never leave my soul. If I g a whole day without touching a pen or pencil, I think my heart would stop. My mind is always going; there’s always something that intrigues me to borrow that idea as a character or a story idea. There was a time that a day wouldn’t pass without me coming up with another idea for a short story or novel…sometimes 3 in one day. (I’ve learned I can’t keep them all) I feel like writing is a way I can show the world the real me…whoever I am.

Baking comes and goes. As I sit here right now, there’s no way I’d want to get up and bake–even if you handed me a million dollars. I’d groan and go to sleep. But, if I were in a bakery right now, surrounded by the fresh aroma of bread and guided by the sounds of Baroque music, I’d love to. That’s just how it is. Oddly enough, I’ve chosen baking as my real career and designated writing as my secondary (on-the-side “hobby”). Funny because, as an artist and a dreamer, I have learned that nothing in the realm of art makes any money (which is why modern art stinks–no, there I go again now. Any excuse to bash modern art…), so I am destined to be broke. Hallelujah! Sigh…What a sad, paltry little life I live.

And, violin. Like I said earlier, if a day passed where I didn’t listen to music, my heart would stop. I cannot stand music that doesn’t sound like music (again…modernism ugh) or anything that doesn’t have violins in it. As long as it has even a hint of violins, I might be able to stand it…maybe. But, I digress. I love violins. So much that it was actually the first instrument I kept playing. I gave up almost right away on piano and clarinet…but I’m already on my second year for violin. Who knew? This is truly for me. I won’t play in front of others, and I don’t want a career in it (again…no “logical careers”…all art-based. I really think I have no left brain. I mean, both my parents are in the medical/scientific field. Where did I come from? Maybe 2 lefts does make a right?). Besides, I’m no prodigy.

So, every day when I wake, I either say…

“I want to write.”

“I want to bake.”

“I want to practice violin.”

“I want to do absolutely nothing.”

And this decides my day. What moods have I! Plus, I could literally go through all of these in one day. Go figure.

So, what does this say about me as an eccentric individual? No idea, really. I may never know who I am. All I know is that no one understands me, I am the epitome of a dreamer, and no one sees me other than “that one girl who never talks.”

Maybe I am Francois-Marcel [CF] Oh, please no.

[Makes box]

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