I'm just going to put this up for now, if people don't liike it, then well I wont do any more. But I have more. and well I find it sad becsue so many people are like this. Without Knowing, from behinf closed doors, what goes on. and for people who fins spelling mistakes, please tell me, I'm rather a very(more like extremly) bad speller. and to say, if this is not good, then it's a one shot. enjoy.
A simple tail .
Everyone could say that a story is made up of different parts. A beginning. A middle. An end. So, simple Eh? But is life that simple? We are born; a beginning. We learn may things; a middle. We died; the end. The role of nature. This has happened since time could say.
We live, we Die. We learn, we fail. What different? Is there a perfect tail, were at life no one dies? Or more to say, no one lives? To live is to die as to die is to live? Is that so true? No one could say otherwise, that in life, to learn is to fail, and to fail we learn. But is that so true in the words to live is to die, and to die is to live? Or I'm I myself gone a little overboard.
Most people are scared about what happens after we die, but to anyone. Some may say we live as a reborn self, other as angels, and some as simple gone. No more then dust in the wind or a corpse rotting in the ground. That's not a pretty thing to think is it? A corpse rotting in the ground. Sad too. Maybe a little upsetting, maybe a lot upsetting to think about what happens to us after we die.
To live is to die and to die is to live. That's my saying. True fully I don't know what happens after we die. I could be old without knowing, not myself in general, but my soul. Or I could say that I'm young, newer then some reading. Maybe I have lived many lifetimes, and if I could tap into it I could see the cavemen ages when our ancestors ruled. Our Ancestors. Maybe I'm my own Ancestor. Maybe I'm my own grandma.
Maybe.
Maybe.
That word holds life together. Because as long as people live, that word will be thrown around. Maybe I could go to the mall and get that new outfit. Maybe I could go dirt biking tomorrow. Maybe I could go Jump off a cliff and survive. Maybe I could be the next millionaire!
Go crazy with that word. That's the only word like it. Maybe.
But what else could I say, that love is fake. That there is no perfect love, and there is no perfect fake. Because if you are a fake, you must love that role to play it or it something that you can't master. As a poker player must love poker to give a fake face? And to love, not all of it is love, there is some fake things such as to be trueful, don't all of us still gawk at other people and think "man, does she EVER look cute!" so on and so forth.
Monday 26
My name is Annabel Sonya Frit. These are my word, and I live by what I say. To me, this is an essay I must hand in to my teacher on Wednesday. To some, it is an insult to may thing, but to me, and most importantly me, it is an essay, nothing more. An essay on "your words on the world". I don't think it's right on topic, but it is 'words on the world' don't you think?
I sigh my name on the top of it to prove it is mine and no one can steal it because I like it. They are my "ideas" about everything in life.
I can not prove my thoughts, but who can prove anything about what I just said. Or on who I am. Only I can think these things and only I can say those things. But for now, I have different homework I must tend to. Let me.
Annabel let the diary slip from her hands on the floor. The words she had in her essay when through her mind like a cat scratching a post, over and over till done. Nothing made her think other ways' or did anyone want to think other ways. But Annabel was tired of listening to her mother preach on things she never knew about.
Her mother would say over and over that she lived in god's will and god's will lived in her. Over and over till passed out on the floor he mother would be drunk. Silently Annabel would take her mother up to the room were her mother crashed in, and put her in bed. Then walking about to her room, Annabel would go sit down and cry into her hands. Letting the pain of getting slapped and beaten by her father sink in. Annabel would cry herself to sleep, almost every night.
Everyone who knew Annabel knew her to be a great smart child, quick wit and smart in books and street smart. She got almost all A's in her classes and always did her homework without being told. Yes she was great. Crying herself to sleep and being beaten.
No one knew the truth. That her mother was a drunk that couldn't do anything but drink and cry to the heavens to deliver her. And that her father was a lying cheating basted that would be on the streets if not for welfare, that father, the one who beat Annabel almost to unconsciousness, then tell her to clean up her own blood. With both water from the tap and tears from here eyes. No one knew.
Annabel never wore shorts or even tanks, only long shirts and jeans, or sweat pants, mattered what she felt like. But Annabel grew.
Annabel was no longer that seven year old girl who couldn't take care of herself. She was now sixteen and living her life fairly small. She didn't care, the only thing she wanted was to get good grade and move out to were she could be happy and leave her forbidden parents forever and never have to do anything about them again.
Get a scholarship to some far off school. Or meet someone who could save her!
But dreams about getting saved had left her a long time ago. Finding love wasn't one of the most biggest things out there. Life was not about love. It was about work.
To someone who didn't understand, she wasn't boy crazy.
so what you think? a little sad. it's so true. Behind closed doors, maybe that's what I should have called it. but thanks for reading, should i do more? you tell me!