About six months ago, my life changed.
Observable.
Explainable.
Someone suggested that I record happenings, after all, I have had many experiences and am almost entitled to share them. Deprivation of knowledge, in my opinion, is the worst. So here, let me teach you a thing or two about me.
October 7th, 2012:
After eleven hours of driving and a few restless hours of humid hotel blankets, I arrived at a cute little cottage house. I was fascinated with how the sun seemed to pierce itself through the branches of the thick above. The air kissed your throat, like dew flirting with the earth. This place was Spring. This new place, was icy air filling every cavern of your chest, it was the metallic smell of fresh slimy ink, it was the hand to the corner of the paper, and thighs against a cold wooden chair, fingers against little squares to make a sheet of black and white--whether that be metaphorical or not. This place, was a new start.
The jump that ripples through a runners body when the gun ignites. It was the feeling of a divers toes grating against the sandpaper edge of the diving board before the 100% performance. This place was everything I needed.
When I was a young girl, I liked sunshine, dust, and horses. I liked the feeling of chocolate in between my teeth, and of course, glitter on my toes. While the pictures are merely a tactile representation of my proven facade, they do accurately represent one thing: I was a little girl. And anyone who was ever a little girl knows that when one is such, many things are required. Some of which being, fruits and vegetables, pink, alone time, friend time, some sort of hyped up princess inspired sport, and a loving, nurturing family. While the jackle-tooth, knotted haired ballerina represented in the pictures might have been given many of the necessary tools to succeed, a series of educational and perhaps unorthodox events happened along her way to womanhood, which all in all inhibited her success; however, while they inhibited her success, they did not override her potential or ability to identify how she could better herself.
That's really what I'd like to talk about. The moments of childish bliss to where I am at this moment. In a way, my life is so cliche, which really makes for good reading. Chances are, I will tell you something you have already heard, but even more likely, I will tell you a combination of ridiculous things you never wanted to hear, but things that will make you wonder.
To be frank, I don't really care what your opinion is. I don't care if you don't like my run on sentences, my repetitive bad choices, or cliche family plot, because this story isn't about you. This is the story of seventeen years in the life of someone who you will never completely understand. Anxious as I might seem, I'm not thrilled to share; however, I feel it my duty, and I don't do well with frivolous bullshit, so excuse my stolid, pretentious behavior. Although I feel obligated in a sense, I'm not sure why I'm writing this, for I don't believe it is for my benefit or "healing". No, certainly not healing. If I wanted healing, I would not conjure a recipe for reminiscent disaster, which this most certainly might be. I don't even hope that you get any sort of "life lesson" out of this, but maybe just... a glimpse. A glimpse of the soles in another persons shoes. I don't owe anything to you and you don't owe anything to me, so why would I lie or leave anything out.
While I often solemnly swear I'm up to no good, I solemnly swear to be honest with not you, but myself.
There are four things I know to be true:
My name is Skarlett Suzanne Hartford.
I am seventeen years old.
Snow is unpleasant to me.
My fingers are bony.
I attribute every connotation possible to the color white.
Uneven numbers are simply inchoate and arid of organizational quench. And most of all, (the unique part) like everyone, I have a story.
