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‘I don’t know who I am’, she writes. ‘I guess that’s always been my problem. I don’t know my tastes, my styles, my type... nothing. I’m just an indecisive mesh of everything. Maybe that’s another thing I should add to my list of Reasons Why People Don’t Like Me.’
She puts her pen down. Reina didn’t like wasting words, on paper or in speech. So, instead, she fell into the steady habit of clicking her pen top up and down, nonstop. Click-click, click-click... staring through her window, Reina thought back on the happenings of her day, now only a faint memory in her sleep-intoxicated mind. Nothing big happened. Simply the usual- Reina liked that phrase, “the usual”- which accounted of going to school, coloring the tips of her hair with seven different colors of Sharpies, avoiding the brain-dead cheerleader bullies, staring at the boy with the gold eyes in her free period (Reina never bothered to find his name- it was more fun guessing), talking to her best and only friends Evan and Giselle, and then, of course, coming back to her messy, well lived-in house to finish her most recent book, being The Count of Monte Cristo.
If I had the talent of writing, Reina thought, I’d never let the words stop flowing. Unfortunately, Reina had no such talent.
I don’t really have any talent, she thought, and much too often for her own liking. She never voiced this thought, in fear of being judged as an attention-seeker, an annoying, desperate pessimist bent on preying off of other’s sympathy and compliments to build up a false identity of self esteem and confidence. Reina wasn’t that kind of girl (thank goodness). That, at least, she knew about herself.
If I could write, Reina thought, I’d be a poet or a lyricist. They always have a way of capturing the right words and putting them down on paper so precisely, so heartbreakingly arranged, it could make one cry. That’s what she loved about words. If the right ones were pulled together, they had a special power- such as one to inspire so many emotions and thoughts, or one to destroy them.
Evan was a writer, and Reina was jealous of him. There was even one point when the poor fool tried to woo her with the written word- poems and notes and adventure stories- and at one point, she believed the feelings were mutual. As time went on, she knew she’d made an irreversible mistake that could never, in any way, be consoled. She had said three words and could never take them back. Evan wouldn’t let go, even though Reina was already gone. He was one mistake she truly regretted, even though they were still great friends.
Giselle, on the other hand, was graceful, careful, and sweet in every form possible. She was talented, too- speaking fluent sign language (which Reina ardently admired) and being able to have a hand at writing a few poems and stories herself. Giselle also had the amazing talent of musical abilities, and being an amazing one-of-a-kind artist. Not only did she possess talents Reina pined for, she had also decided to make a career based from those talents. She was already giving piano lessons and selling pieces and trinkets in her own gallery/studio... Reina had hopelessly lost her inspiration on several accounts where she had tried to mimic Giselle. It was pointless. Giselle had a plan, a goal, and a dream for her life; Reina, on the other hand, had nothing.
The boy with the gold eyes even had a talent. Reina had seen him playing, competing, and winning in multiple fields- soccer, football, volleyball, and track... she was amazed by his commitment, longevity and pure skill he had in any sport he had come across. She hardly knew him- and only did for his gold eyes- but she knew talent. Even though she hated sports- the emotion varied depending on the certain sport- she knew what a genius looked like.
Reina sighed, and looked out her window. The stars seemed so small, so distant, so faded- it was almost like a silent plea for help. The darkness enveloped the sky and brought attention to the thin slit of ringed silver light- the halo of the earth- the moon. It shone gold on this particular night, but kept retreating further and further away into the inky emptiness of the sky. Reina wanted to reach out her arms and cry, “No, wait, take me with you!” Up there, so far away in the clouds, she would at least be absent from the raw feeling of longing, and instead be comforted by the warmth of the sun, the blanket of stars, the whispers of dreams from the Man in the Moon, and her own restless thoughts.
Reina knew her life wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t perfect, and it had its flaws, but it was good. But she, most like any other typical (or not) teenager, yearned for peace. She wanted purpose, a reason, a plan for the one life she’d been given. She wanted a place where she would just belong. It was hard not to cry, when she thought about it.
Reina wasn’t a bad girl. Never was, and never could be. She had her quirks- Sharpie-dyed rainbow hair, biting her lip when concentrating until bled, her liking for unique books and music, doodling on her skin, her particular longing for purpose and talent- and what she lacked in height, she made up for in her stubborn, opinionated personality. Most times she was a calm, serene girl- but she could argue her way to the grave, even taking Death with her. She didn’t want much in life. Just a talent, a purpose, and a story. She wanted her life to be one of those cheesy adventure novels that were so confusing and mysterious and dangerous, with comedy and romance, that everyone would want to read it, and maybe it would eventually be sold as a bestseller and funding and casting would be set to turn it into a movie that people wouldn’t mind watching on re-run.
Suddenly Reina stopped clicking her pen, bit her lip, and smiled. She picked up her journal and quickly scribbled the last few lines in the day’s entry before turning off her lamp and curling up under her mother’s handmade raggedy quilt, quickly falling into a dreamless sleep.
‘Maybe I’m not ever going to know my purpose. I’m not ever going to have a talent, either- I’m not a dancer, a singer, a writer, a musician, an athlete, or an artist- but I am a passionist, and I am going to make my life one hell of a story.’