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Phantasmoria

Preface

Written among their faces thrived a devious expression, an expression for which stood out by its own. Within their ostentatiously beautiful eyes, screamed a remark of horror,
my glance staring contently into the soul of a monster. Puzzling, it may seem, for one to be so deeply captivated within a form of evil, yet the more frequently i stared into
their presence, the greater affect of intoxication they had among my existence.
Deprived of such inebriated feeling for so long, it was only human for me to cherish a mere moment like this-to drown within the abnormal current of highness. With all forces
of interrogation, I dissected their appearance deep down to the core of their soul-deep down the very measure of each solitary heartbeat.
And as I continued to gaze into the eyes of my encountered Satan, into the eyes of my sworn and beloved sickening enemy, it all struck too quickly for me to comprehend.
Before I could perceive all calamitous force weakening me down upon my own account, I dreamt of their clan nightly. I was absorbed momentarily by the thriving of their souls.
And before I could pause to contemplate, I was sucked into the bewildering current of indubitable love; the current for which changed my life into the most marvelous living
nightmare.























1. Misconception

In my dreams, it was one voice that spoke. One voice that narrated my whole conception of fantasy. Drowning within the discrete world of nothing but imagination,
it was quite common for me to have total uncontrolled of my explosive fantasia. It was almost "frequent," however, for my mind to pump such innovative and wandering thoughts.
The voice that preached these thoughts, however, was the voice of one I loved. The voice of one that turned my innocent blood into pulsing poison.
When I closed my eyes to free my mind of all regulations, it was he who abducted my sanity-he who stole my ascendancy of my own very thoughts. Envious of such power,
I often reflected jealousy for one of such dominance-one of such control. Yet each moment when I drifted among another note in the rhapsody of life, that haunting voice
came back
to remind me of my vulnerability-my pathetic disabled function of mental self control.
The day I fled my very own surroundings, the day I vanished from where I stood among this earthly ground, was the mere day I fell into the nightmare that stalked me ever
since.
It was a mistake, I often hoax myself, to move to Blue Hill, the exact town for where my innocence became mere history. It was a mistake, I believed, to leave my past
soul-occupant.
It was a mistake, he often reminded me, to fall into his arms-his trap of abduction.
The day I said goodbye, the day I last saw all contours of my first vitality was the day I was completely oblivious to the future that lay before my decision-the phantasmagoria
that infiltrated my life. And the moment I was released from my family's protection was the moment I found my insanity-the moment i discovered my dangerous creative
intuition.
And that moment, I strongly recall, was one of the few moments in presence I can still dissect to the very last detail.



The things I would miss most about Georgia; the warm rains. The gleaming sunshine. The light winter snowfalls. And, ironically, my youthful years of adolescence.
Traveling far up north from my hometown, it would be a "drastic change",
if you'd say, to live in a state with only 50% of its locals reading among a decent literacy rate. It may seem to be a pathetic and obscured decision to cross upon,
yet it was not the very details of Maine
that drew me to Blue Hill-it was the boredom of Georgia that scared me away.
Day after day, the typical city dwellers among the streets of Atlanta continued as usual, their boring southern lives causing so that my eyelids struggled to keep open.
From the wealthy avenues to the typical middle-class lanes, it was all the same canvas of gray-colored splatter; splatter for which remained the ugliest, most vulnerable
piece of artwork created.
Don't get me wrong-I was perfectly fine during the days of my younger lifetime-yet as I grew into the woman I am now; teenager, rather;I discovered that more than just
ordinary novelties
lay beyond my vision.
Built and raised within a realm so isolated, little did I know what lay beyond the city borders of Atlanta-little did I know that such a town like Blue Hill even existed.
So naive to the outer world, I was captivated within a moment in time-I was frozen among the mere bland quality of southern-city life.
And looking back, the day I entered Gate 25 of AHN Airport was the day I knew my boring life thrived no longer-that day the day I recognized what a truly beautiful mess I had
gotten myself in to.

Wearing my worn out gray jeans and sacred Blessed Trinity High sweatshirt, I stepped onto the dirt-pasted concrete sidewalk of Bangor International Airport, my first inhalants
of New England air being the inhalants of truck fumes as well as gasoline toxins. Coughing, I struggled to find the natural ingredients within this New England wind, yet my
attempts led to the mere poison of disappointment.
With the most positive attitude I could possibly possess, I glanced at my current surroundings,
finding a luxurious town plaza containing Payless and Shaw's Supermarket. Not TOTALLY inhumane....
Breathing in my first whip of northern oxygen, I noticed the temperature change among my tongue, the mid-October air greatly different here in Bangor. Trying to keep
back tears
of regret, I swallowed my fears and negative feelings, facing toward the isolated and rural "city" in-sections.
Gripping my collection of boarding passes and dollar bills, I stumbled upon the city sidewalk, my heavy suitcase and duffel bag dragging among the concrete due to the
vulnerability
of my arm muscles.
Ridiculous, such a sight may seem, for a slender, tall, feminine built girl like me to be lugging such bulky luggage. Yet when twilight was near and the streets were partially empty,
my first goal was to escape the eerie manner of such a desolated community.
And as I walked, the breeze slicing among my cheeks was a breeze of warning, it's high-toned pitch screaming for me to go home.
No need for the welcome invitation.

From what I can possibly recall, the seconds I waisted trying to transform my internal being were seconds that merely took away from the time of my life-seconds that
I lost due to the misconception and confusion for who I was. Silly, ridiculous rather, that I was stressed among being a misfit, yet when your hometown was a town of preppy,
ethnocentric bystanders, it was common for young artsy girls like me to be ashamed of their identity.
No one ever made the newspaper headlines in Atlanta-no one ever dared to wander their minds outside the weakly-constructed "box".
It was simple; after college, you scavenged your way back into the boring woods of Georgia, and from then on, Daddy's business was all that life offered. Period.
It was a sin to dream-it was a sin to take upon any risky challenge. It was nonexistent to follow a passion; for your career was a career that based upon the decisions of others.

Back in Atlanta, my choice to leave home after high school was an "unheard of" decision, as no young adult vanished from their family until marriage. Believe me-it
took numerous
tries and persuasive pleas for my parent's approval of my voyage, those tries and pleas containing the remnants of hideous arguments. Yet the day the word "yes" slipped
out upon the contours of my mother's lips was the day I no longer went by the name of Vita Stone-yet the day I became the "girl with no last name."
Rejection, as all typical Americans have put it, was the cause of agonizing pain-the word that weakened souls and killed all existence of happiness. "Rejection" was supposedly the
devious word that killed all thriving confidence-its letters the characters of language that symbolized insecurity.
Yet, to my unique and crazed interpretation, the rejection of my family did not mean depression nor pain-it was the simple birth of my existence; the freedom that allowed
my soul
to wander within the ferocious woods of adulthood.
And though that rejection perhaps affected me physiologically when relationships struck later on within my existence, it was not my abandoned that kept me strong;
it was the challenge
of living upon my own account that built my confidence.
And if it weren't for that challenge, I'd be deprived of the opportunity to kick ass.




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This article has 3 comments. Post your own!

Aderes18This teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Apr. 21, 2011 at 10:36 pm:
I love the way U talk about Maine!! I love vacationing there!!
 
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Aderes18This teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Apr. 21, 2011 at 10:34 pm:
I love this piece as well. There are just certain parts of it that will stick with me for a long time! I love ur writing !!
 
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PerfectMGymnast This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Mar. 25, 2011 at 1:21 am:
sound very intresting!! and i'd love to read more!! :) I can't wait  to read this as a full out novel!!
 
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