Only In Fiction.

Most notice the element of me in one of the main heroines in the stories I write. But nobody knows the right reason why. The only thing I, as the author, have in common with these interesting characters is the eye colour. That is something I cannot resist. I have to give them a hint of hazel eyes. The truth behind my obsession of putting myself in the characters, is I desperately desire to be like them. Drawing up damaged girls who have exceptional beauty, inspiring talent or remarkable personalities and then imagining myself in their beautiful shoes as they run about 1920's New York with a gentlemen finding them alluring and mysterious. Or a striking ballet dancer with such poise yet so much insecurity and that one boy who sees her perform alone and in secret one night.

I often write about romance.

I need some in my life, I think.

I long to drown in my scribbles and transform into one of my heroines. With a disastorous life that no one knows about, I am a heroine in secret. Somebody's yet to write me to life.

Escaping the Reality of Hope.

Hope is something I wish I didn't rely on. It keeps me alive. And I loathe this part of it. I lay on my couch yesterday with words of suicide on my tongue and thoughts of good things to come in my mind. I trusted the good things to come and decided against reaching for a kitchen knife to hopefully nick my wrists with but alas hope told me to hold on.
He might come back. Wait a year and you'll finally get him. Just remember how it felt when he kissed you. He'll change, you know he will. Forget the fact he's tearing your heart out whilst you are sleeping on your couch because your father is screaming drunkenly at your mother upstairs. The boy'll come around.
Hope makes me invisible. Hope stops me crying. I don't want that. I detest waking up in the morning with a new perspective on life. I don't like the girls who cry in my school year.
Why do I go on social networking sites nightly or stare at my phone, desperately waiting on one little text? Because in those worlds, I'm a happy child. I'm a child who likes themselves. But even my fantasies are turning against me.
Hope is killing me slowly and ever so torturously.

"When you try your best but you don't succeed. When you get what you want but not what you need. When you feel so tired but you can't sleep. Stuck in reverse. And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace. When you love something but it goes to waste. Could it be worse? Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones. And I will try to fix you..."

The Definition Of A Wallflower.

I know a wallflower by two definitions. There are the wallflowers that scale to new heights in their beautiful colours as they wind their way up the brick walls up peoples' houses. They are something easily recognisable in stories that detail the lives on sweet, old grandmothers and their honeysuckle covered cottages in the heart of forests.
In another reality, the harsher one, a wallflower is the epitome of the ignorance of others. A wallflower is someone who tries to raise their voice only to be shouted down by the braver ones. A wallflower is plain with no striking looks, no means of catching anyone of any gender's attention. A wallflower is someone with a talent never to be noticed. A wallflower is usually the one with the most important story. No one wants to listen to the wallflower so they remain in the background, silent tears dribbling down their reddened cheeks as the silent pain rips through their heart.
I know a wallflower and try as she might with the latest fashions, the quirkiest spins on her clothes, the most interesting topics of discussions, the loudest laugh, she's ignored. She presses herself against the brick wall of the old grandmother's house and wraps herself among the intertwining plants and disappears.
I suppose you could call that wallflower me.