I hate working at a launder mat. I miss the days where I did what I loved, for a million times more, but that's not my life. Not anymore.
For six years, I was writing songs, playing the keyboard, and sung half the vocals for a rock band: All Night Long. But Amalia Dubai was kicked out, right after the second tour. We'd just been getting big, and the boys just threw me out. Thanks, guys!
My pity party was in full swing. I'd lost so much to debt. It was all I could accomplish alone to get that shabby apartment, we bought after a day on the streets. While I was wrapped in my thoughts, it came as a shock to realize I was totally lost.
There were a bunch of gardens in a lot to my right. Confused, I asked a young girl, "What is this?"
She glanced upward. The girl had a pretty face. "This is the Gibb Street Garden."
I must have looked even more confused, because she started laughing. "It's a community thing here. Anyone can plant anything, so long as there's room," she explained, then smiled. "Will you be planting anything?" The teenager pointed to an empty patch, right next to her things. "There's room right here. Need me to help you?"
It might take my mind off things, so I accepted her offer. The girl's name was Leona. She walked me to the garden store, and kept trying to make me do squash. Except I wanted nothing but black roses. The symbol of death. I feel dead without my music. Leona finally gave in, and because I didn't know what to do, she helped me plant them.
…
A few days later, a fragile sprout appeared. All the sudden, it came to me how ironic it is that something that means death is living. Although it's got a black top and sharp thorns, it's not something dead. It's the start of a new phase, a flashing beacon of n=my new life here. So what if a fourth of my life was rock music? That's not me anymore. This me lives in Cleveland, gardens on Gibb Street, and works at a laundermat.
And guess what? She's happy that way. Whenever someone recalls my old life, I'll just shake my head. Just because you didn't reach your destination doesn't always mean you failed. Do I sound like a failure to you?
A/N: Behold, my writing skills in 6th grade! We had to read this book in English class, and write our own chapter to it using an OC we created, one canon character, plant something something not used in the book, and make a philosophical discovery in the garden. Over a year later, I'm presenting my first draft, only edited recently for grammar. I got a 92 on this project, and yes, I'm aware it's bad writing.
So why did I publish, might you ask? Simply to give you a look at how much I've grown, and to remind myself that no matter how bad I feel about something, I am improving. I've improved since then, and will for the rest of my life.
