I'm simply here to tell you how it all went down. Because now I know why I've been able to predict the future since adolescence. It's because I'm not the protagonist I once hoped to be, I'm the author. And I'm starting to be ok with that.
This is her story.
It's a story of a girl who signs her death sentence every time she shaves her legs. Because she prefers pants. And shaved legs are only good when they are going to be felt.
It's a story of the girl who is still mad no one got a picture of the Titanic sinking because all she wants to know is what it felt like seeing the ocean swallow the whole world.
A girl whose talents consist of odd human tricks that everyone laughs at but no one actually cares about.
This girl's story is about her fear. And how she doesn't want to die normal or live normal. But no one wants to work 9-5. No one wants to be a trophy wife and no one wants to die alone. But still everyone is and everyone does.
And that scares her more than it all. Because she's starting to realize that I'm the one telling her story, and I'm the one writing the ending.
I'm so sorry.
And she is this way because that's the way I made her. Even if that's not the way I wanted her to be.
I'm the one who made her like books so much and I'm the one who took away her purity with my words and my punctuation.
I'm the inventor of time.
But this isn't my story.
And I still haven't decided if this girl, the one who's world I've been born to create, is going to die young yet. Because dying young is so noble. And dying old is so normal.
Or maybe I'll send her back in time, to get a picture of the Titanic as it sinks.
Esther.
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