She is at war with herself about all the conflicting things she wants. She wants chaos and control. She wants adventure and safety. She wants to live in a city, have a busy life, lots of friends, a demanding career. She wants to live in the woods, write and be all alone. She wants to know everything and know nothing. She wants to fit in and be different, be the odd one out. She wants to be innovating, make her own path. She wants to be normal, conventional. She wants to be a responsible adult. She wants to stay a child forever, to have no worries and no stress. She wants to be happily married, she wants to be single, she wants to have hundreds of lovers. She wants to be respected, looked up to, admired. She wants to be a rebel, a broke artist, a trouble maker. She wants a regular life, she wants to change the world. She wants everything, but she wants nothing.
Every day is a new battle. What to do? What to want? What to choose? Do you have to choose, stranger? She is a lover of the small, romantic things. She loves when someone traces a tiny scar she has above her back with their fingers, she denies that she loves this scar, tells people it is ugly, tells people she would rid of it, but whenever she is alone, whenever people are not looking, her fingers are magnetized to that stretch of skin, and she just traces it in circles like a memory. Tonight, the lines of her fingerprints get lost in the lines of that scar. She longs for someone else’s fingers to meet hers. She meets me. An awkward twenty something that has nothing to prove. She loves this though. Sees me as her project, someone she can transform. She can introduce me to a high life, her friends, her social life. Her outside facade of wanting to fit in the world can become mine, too. But when we are alone she won't have to pretend with me, we can be alone together.
What’s weird about her confliction is how she tells me she want kids. Her mom wasn't the best mom in the world and she’s scared to put her kids through that. It’s in her genes she says. But still, she loves them. She says she wants one or two little brats to run around. I always wanted to be a parent, she says. Even though the thought of being anything like her mother petrifies her. She loves the cold; something I’ll never understand, though being brought up in what feels like a desert probably has that effect on you. She wants to go as north as possible, Alaska even, which I can’t even begin to understand. She loves going out, spending time outside. She says the outdoors is wonderful until it burns her pale skin. She loves big groups and the feeling of belonging somewhere, being loved and needed. I hate outside and I hate big groups.
If I could I’d stay in my house all the time. It’s got everything I need anyway. Big groups make me anxious and nervous and I always preferred to be by my lonesome. She’s ambitious and hardworking and I’m a slacker. She’s a perfectionist and wants everything to be perfect. I’m happy with whatever I do, no matter how shitty it is. She’s going places that I know I’m not. I don’t have the guts or the strength. Even when we are out, when I look noticeably awkward, she looks at me as if to say ''Just fight with me. Act Normal. Come on, we can't hide away forever.''
She is a wolf, a wave on the sea, a foreign language.
She is home.
Every day is a new battle. What to do? What to want? What to choose? Do you have to choose, stranger? She is a lover of the small, romantic things. She loves when someone traces a tiny scar she has above her back with their fingers, she denies that she loves this scar, tells people it is ugly, tells people she would rid of it, but whenever she is alone, whenever people are not looking, her fingers are magnetized to that stretch of skin, and she just traces it in circles like a memory. Tonight, the lines of her fingerprints get lost in the lines of that scar. She longs for someone else’s fingers to meet hers. She meets me. An awkward twenty something that has nothing to prove. She loves this though. Sees me as her project, someone she can transform. She can introduce me to a high life, her friends, her social life. Her outside facade of wanting to fit in the world can become mine, too. But when we are alone she won't have to pretend with me, we can be alone together.
What’s weird about her confliction is how she tells me she want kids. Her mom wasn't the best mom in the world and she’s scared to put her kids through that. It’s in her genes she says. But still, she loves them. She says she wants one or two little brats to run around. I always wanted to be a parent, she says. Even though the thought of being anything like her mother petrifies her. She loves the cold; something I’ll never understand, though being brought up in what feels like a desert probably has that effect on you. She wants to go as north as possible, Alaska even, which I can’t even begin to understand. She loves going out, spending time outside. She says the outdoors is wonderful until it burns her pale skin. She loves big groups and the feeling of belonging somewhere, being loved and needed. I hate outside and I hate big groups.
If I could I’d stay in my house all the time. It’s got everything I need anyway. Big groups make me anxious and nervous and I always preferred to be by my lonesome. She’s ambitious and hardworking and I’m a slacker. She’s a perfectionist and wants everything to be perfect. I’m happy with whatever I do, no matter how shitty it is. She’s going places that I know I’m not. I don’t have the guts or the strength. Even when we are out, when I look noticeably awkward, she looks at me as if to say ''Just fight with me. Act Normal. Come on, we can't hide away forever.''
She is a wolf, a wave on the sea, a foreign language.
She is home.
My character is actually writing his own prose throughout the novel, and I will dish in and out of this narrative. Not sure who ''she'' is or where she is going but I don't think ''she'' does either.
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