In Which

She lives, for the most part, inside her own head. It's not that the outside world's so terribly awful or anything. Really, she's got a good family (Mom, Dad, brother off at college, little sister who gets into everything), a good group of friends (people she spends her weekends and summers with), a good head on her shoulders (always does her homework, doesn't get involved in things of an illegal nature, gonna go to a good college, don't you know?) Her life's fine. And this, actually, is part of the problem.

She's bored.

She's content here in her middle-class-high-school-student life, but content is not the same as happy. And she's never been one for complacency. She's never been particularly enthused in leading a quiet life. She yearns for adventure, stomach dropping lows and exhilarating highs. She wants to be strapped into the tallest roller coaster in the amusement park. The suburbs are more like a Ferris wheel, and not one of those fast ones either.

And so she writes.

Her imagination is pretty damn awesome so the words come easy. She doesn't write nonfiction (boring, and, besides, there's nothing to say) but instead spins webs of fiction, fairytales and love stories and mysteries. Not many of them are ever finished, because her mind's like a three year old whose had too much sugar: jumping from one thing to the next too quick for her to keep up. She doesn't even try, just goes along with the fragmented fantasies.

This is how she passes the days, creating worlds in which things are more to her liking.

In which she lives in the city, bright lights and close-packed congestion.

In which she cuts off all her and hair and gets a tattoo, just because she feels like it.

In which she laughs without abandon, unconcerned by appearances and public opinion and what people are whispering behind her back.

In which she is more than.