"Little Miss Mary Sunshine" -- by Allora Atwater
A/N: I know people have tried this approach before (mainly with characters like Zell or Quistis, even Irvine) but I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, there's more to Selphie than meets the eye. Maybe all that happiness is just a well-placed facade...? *Major* OOC-ness but that's okay, it's fiction right? ^.~ BTW, I didn't need a thesaurus to write this for those who are wondering, I just have a big vocabulary when I write. *Shrugs* And I know Selphie would probably never talk like this, but it's just something weird to think about.
Disclaimer: *pulls pockets inside out* I have no money cause the government takes half my paycheck (or so it seems...) so even if you want to sue me for using Square's characters, you won't get much.
When a person is trying her hardest to hide her innermost fears and insecurities, she normally projects this image of herself that is completely on the opposite end of the spectrum from who she really is. It's a natural human defense mechanism, designed by people who are too unhappy with their own shortcomings to share their true souls with others. I'm one of those individuals, one who stares at herself in the mirror every morning, cursing her very existence. My biggest inhibition is my complete lack of self-esteem.
Doesn't seem likely does it? I've always made myself out to be this carefree epitome of a flighty teenage airhead, mainly in hopes that people wouldn't get their expectations for me too high. Sure, I like a challenge. But I've always fretted failure and as a result, I never let my true skill show through, never let people expect more from me than I was sure I could provide. I've always felt like a disappointment, no matter how many goals I've acheived in my life. Becoming a SeeD? Just a title. Heading the Garden Festival Committee? Just something to pass the time. Another worthless activity I can say I participated in.
I've always felt so ugly too. Short, no real defining curves, just knees-and-elbows Selphie Tilmitt. Normal features, nothing that screams, 'look at me, I'm gorgeous!'. Nothing in comparison to the entrancing beauties that surround me. I don't have a commanding stature or probing gaze like Quistis. I don't have silken hair or distinct features like Rinoa. My eyes are too large; some call them doe eyes, but I don't find them attractive in the slightest. My small hands and short little fingers, my legs that are always bruised up from falling, my voice that sounds like I never completed puberty. I hate myself.
My happy-go-lucky disposition and impish demeanor hide the brooding intellect within. It sounds far-fetched, but it's me, beneath all the childish enthusiasm that I display before the world. The Selphie Tilmitt before she leaves her room every morning and welcomes the day with a forced smile. Before she feigns foolishness to fit the stereotype of how she should be. Before she transforms into something she's not. But really, what's the point in keeping up this charade anymore?
It's not very conceivable that I would eve know what the word conceivable means. Of course, with the mask I clutch so desperately, it's hard to believe I know much at all. I grew up under the assumption that being smart got you nothing but more trouble, more demands, more impossible standards that needed to be reached with a certain amount of skill. And skill was something I didn't know I possessed, didn't want to possess, for fear that I wouldn't know how to utilize it.
I didn't try to be original, because in my deluded world, being unique meant being ostracized. If I wasn't another chip off the conformist block, I was nothing. I had to pretend, through all my pain and confusion, that I was a happy, high-spirited girl. That's where my endless supply of jubilance seems to manifest; the need to be noticed, accepted. Generally, people like to be reminded of the good things in life, which is why I've always tried to maintain a positive attitude, playing the role of the optimist. I was always the annoyingly jaunty tune that was stuck in someone's head, pestering them, but at the same time, helping them remember the brighter side of life. That was the only thing that ever kept me going, was the fact that in some small way, I was helping people cope with their pessimistic musings.
I make fruitless attempts to turn my life into the fairytale I make it out to be, trying endlessly to revive any happy memories I have. But it seems that now, all of my pleasant recollections are simply fabrications of a psuedo-euphoric daydream. I materialize fictitious occurences and play them out in my mind; my own personal fantasies that I pass as real life situations. I guess it keeps me alive, regaling tales that never took place.
Do I sound dramatic? Maybe I should have joined theater and become an actress or performer? But that requires talent, patience, and dedication, among other things. I'm a very thin-tempered, ill-mannered girl. I have little drive or motivation. I view all of my accomplishments as failures, all my aspirations as unobtainable goals. I haven't the skill nor the determination to persue anything other than something below my standards.
I purposely aim low so that if I reach above my expectations, I can be proud, and if I meet the standard, I can say I accomplished something. But even then, I know I've failed as a human being for not forcing myself to try harder, not mustering my capabilities to their fullest potential. It's an endless game of cat-and-mouse, where I'm constantly losing sight of the mouse and chasing my tail the entire time, hoping that if I put all my effort into one thing I know I can do, then other things will come easier as well. In all finality, I just end up making myself dizzy from the strain and discouraged from picking up my feet and trying again.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, all of my bottled up emotions rising to the surface at once like bubbling champagne. You know how they open the bottle only to have half of it erupt and spill onto the floor? I would represent the part that soaks into the carpet, getting stepped on and ignored until someone came to remove me, efface any traces of my existence. I brush my hair back, pat down my dress, take every small little precaution to make certain I appear presentable, at least by formal standards. And then I open the door and greet the world with a plastic smile, inviting my false benevolence to overwhelm the sadness and aggressive that stirs my soul.
The End
I know I know, it's weird, and very un-Selphie like, but I felt the need to write something like this. And for those of you who are reading my new series "A Stab in the Dark", I'll be posting the next part soon which'll be longer and stuff... umm okay, that's all, please R & R this is one of my personal favorites and I wanna know what you guys think!
A/N: I know people have tried this approach before (mainly with characters like Zell or Quistis, even Irvine) but I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, there's more to Selphie than meets the eye. Maybe all that happiness is just a well-placed facade...? *Major* OOC-ness but that's okay, it's fiction right? ^.~ BTW, I didn't need a thesaurus to write this for those who are wondering, I just have a big vocabulary when I write. *Shrugs* And I know Selphie would probably never talk like this, but it's just something weird to think about.
Disclaimer: *pulls pockets inside out* I have no money cause the government takes half my paycheck (or so it seems...) so even if you want to sue me for using Square's characters, you won't get much.
When a person is trying her hardest to hide her innermost fears and insecurities, she normally projects this image of herself that is completely on the opposite end of the spectrum from who she really is. It's a natural human defense mechanism, designed by people who are too unhappy with their own shortcomings to share their true souls with others. I'm one of those individuals, one who stares at herself in the mirror every morning, cursing her very existence. My biggest inhibition is my complete lack of self-esteem.
Doesn't seem likely does it? I've always made myself out to be this carefree epitome of a flighty teenage airhead, mainly in hopes that people wouldn't get their expectations for me too high. Sure, I like a challenge. But I've always fretted failure and as a result, I never let my true skill show through, never let people expect more from me than I was sure I could provide. I've always felt like a disappointment, no matter how many goals I've acheived in my life. Becoming a SeeD? Just a title. Heading the Garden Festival Committee? Just something to pass the time. Another worthless activity I can say I participated in.
I've always felt so ugly too. Short, no real defining curves, just knees-and-elbows Selphie Tilmitt. Normal features, nothing that screams, 'look at me, I'm gorgeous!'. Nothing in comparison to the entrancing beauties that surround me. I don't have a commanding stature or probing gaze like Quistis. I don't have silken hair or distinct features like Rinoa. My eyes are too large; some call them doe eyes, but I don't find them attractive in the slightest. My small hands and short little fingers, my legs that are always bruised up from falling, my voice that sounds like I never completed puberty. I hate myself.
My happy-go-lucky disposition and impish demeanor hide the brooding intellect within. It sounds far-fetched, but it's me, beneath all the childish enthusiasm that I display before the world. The Selphie Tilmitt before she leaves her room every morning and welcomes the day with a forced smile. Before she feigns foolishness to fit the stereotype of how she should be. Before she transforms into something she's not. But really, what's the point in keeping up this charade anymore?
It's not very conceivable that I would eve know what the word conceivable means. Of course, with the mask I clutch so desperately, it's hard to believe I know much at all. I grew up under the assumption that being smart got you nothing but more trouble, more demands, more impossible standards that needed to be reached with a certain amount of skill. And skill was something I didn't know I possessed, didn't want to possess, for fear that I wouldn't know how to utilize it.
I didn't try to be original, because in my deluded world, being unique meant being ostracized. If I wasn't another chip off the conformist block, I was nothing. I had to pretend, through all my pain and confusion, that I was a happy, high-spirited girl. That's where my endless supply of jubilance seems to manifest; the need to be noticed, accepted. Generally, people like to be reminded of the good things in life, which is why I've always tried to maintain a positive attitude, playing the role of the optimist. I was always the annoyingly jaunty tune that was stuck in someone's head, pestering them, but at the same time, helping them remember the brighter side of life. That was the only thing that ever kept me going, was the fact that in some small way, I was helping people cope with their pessimistic musings.
I make fruitless attempts to turn my life into the fairytale I make it out to be, trying endlessly to revive any happy memories I have. But it seems that now, all of my pleasant recollections are simply fabrications of a psuedo-euphoric daydream. I materialize fictitious occurences and play them out in my mind; my own personal fantasies that I pass as real life situations. I guess it keeps me alive, regaling tales that never took place.
Do I sound dramatic? Maybe I should have joined theater and become an actress or performer? But that requires talent, patience, and dedication, among other things. I'm a very thin-tempered, ill-mannered girl. I have little drive or motivation. I view all of my accomplishments as failures, all my aspirations as unobtainable goals. I haven't the skill nor the determination to persue anything other than something below my standards.
I purposely aim low so that if I reach above my expectations, I can be proud, and if I meet the standard, I can say I accomplished something. But even then, I know I've failed as a human being for not forcing myself to try harder, not mustering my capabilities to their fullest potential. It's an endless game of cat-and-mouse, where I'm constantly losing sight of the mouse and chasing my tail the entire time, hoping that if I put all my effort into one thing I know I can do, then other things will come easier as well. In all finality, I just end up making myself dizzy from the strain and discouraged from picking up my feet and trying again.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, all of my bottled up emotions rising to the surface at once like bubbling champagne. You know how they open the bottle only to have half of it erupt and spill onto the floor? I would represent the part that soaks into the carpet, getting stepped on and ignored until someone came to remove me, efface any traces of my existence. I brush my hair back, pat down my dress, take every small little precaution to make certain I appear presentable, at least by formal standards. And then I open the door and greet the world with a plastic smile, inviting my false benevolence to overwhelm the sadness and aggressive that stirs my soul.
The End
I know I know, it's weird, and very un-Selphie like, but I felt the need to write something like this. And for those of you who are reading my new series "A Stab in the Dark", I'll be posting the next part soon which'll be longer and stuff... umm okay, that's all, please R & R this is one of my personal favorites and I wanna know what you guys think!