This Little Girl (autobiography) | Teen Ink

This Little Girl (autobiography)

August 17, 2012
By Prehistoric-Fool GOLD, Wellesley, Massachusetts
Prehistoric-Fool GOLD, Wellesley, Massachusetts
16 articles 2 photos 23 comments

Favorite Quote:
“Every path is the right path. Everything could’ve been anything else. And it would have just as much meaning.”

Nemo Nobody

She was a little girl from some busybody town, always asking directions- where to go, how to get there. The sky was closer to her than any friend she ever had, for it was dependable; always there, always vigilant. She was neither dead nor alive, teetering on the edge of somewhere in between, as if it had been her deliberate fate from the beginning, as if it had been predestined.

Deep in the night when other souls are healing, resting, she would sit awake, listening to the winds wail and call her out. They tell her stories of the night, of the darkness, of the forgotten. The stories of the old and the new, the dying, decaying stars and the gingerbread houses that were never made. They tell her she doesn’t belong, tell her she’s different. Different. She would never blend into the scenery. And sometimes, she would sit on the roof late at night, terrified of the close proximity of the walls inside for they cut off her vision, her vision of some faraway world where she could soar as she’d always wanted with her tired, heavey wings.

When she was little, she used to believe in angels, and love. Love and angels, the good of the world, the universal fairytales. Everything moved her: the last dance of the snowflakes as they fall ever so slowly to their eventual, beautiful deaths, the clink of a glass being set on the table, the loose threads on a shirt, anything at all. She had something for them all, something to give, soemthing to feel. She felt with her mind’s eye, with her soul and her heart. She could soar like heaven on earth and honestly smile to herself. She had those shoulder shaking laughs that brought tears to her eyes from the pit of her soul and gave her the strength to feel. To live! To live is to fly! For what matter of beast would not wish to fly?

She loves the mind-boggling, dizzying heights where she could teeter on the edge of one world and another, free of the burdens from both. Free of truth, free of realists, free of logic.

Liberated. But never fully. Her paper thin wings were never enough to carry the weight of the world with.

The author's comments:
This isn't really a life story, not at all... it's more like an autobiography of my emotions.

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