Hey,
I figured it was about time I posted one of these. My name is Kirsten, but I much prefer my middle name, actually, I don't like my middle name, but it's more apt than my first name. I shall not tell you it though, you can guess. xD
So, to start this off let's have some random facts:
I was born on the 13th of June, and I turned 13 on Friday the 13th of June. Yes, I am very odd.
None of my friends know me. At least, not the real me.
I love condensation so, so, so much. I just adore it
I love the sound of rain on my conservatory rooftop.
I have a cocker spaniel called Roddy who is absolutely adorable.
Emily Bronte is my deity.
Without books I would crumble.
Okay, to introduce myself, I guess you could call me the oddity. Nothing else really fits. Maybe I should start at the beginning. Kirsten, I don't know her. And that scares me; it does. I know that she was born in a hospital and most likely will die in a hospital, but other than that I know nothing. I am very mature, I am constantly being told this and people believe me to be much older than I am.
You have no idea how many people have told me that I am hugely gifted, or incredibly talented. No idea how many claim I am amazingly clever. But I'm not really, I believe that I have maybe... one clever trait:-
"Wisest is she who knows she does not"
I know nothing, I really don't. But this bothers me terribly. I don't know who I am, or why I'm here. But I will find out. I want to know.
I am in every sense a philosopher. You cannot even begin to ponder how deep my thoughts are. You have no idea at all. I so desperately yearn for knowledge and want to be a philosopher. But I can't, for the job does not exist. And it would not do to be a sophist.
Would not do.
I am not a sophist, nor shall I ever be. I do not want to teach philosophy or earn money from it in any way at all. That, I would detest. I am a lover of knowledge, not a skilled, clever person. I care not for your ideas, but my own, my own I shall gladly accept.
All she ever does is think.
I think. I write. But I don't write nearly as much as I think.
Writing is my passion, as is philosophy. Other than that, I'm a nobody.
Without both of these passions I would most certainly have killed myself by now. And no, I'm not suicidal. I just feel my life is of no worth without any of these.
I find love in the pages of my novels, nowhere else and I care not for love.
There is one thing I like about myself, one thing, and one thing only. I believe that I do not posses a coward soul. I own a strong one, and that is something that I prize well above my own life. I don't care for reality.
Who am I?
I don't know. I have no idea. You've never really thought about that, have you? You don't know who you are. You are either ignorant, and you wish to believe otherwise, or you lack the depth to delve deep enough. Shallow-ness is a quality that I hate. Everyone is shallow to an extent. Until it comes to a certain type of people, the people that question and care. The people that want to know.
I hate my life.
There are three hundred pupils in my year at my school. About two hundred and seventy five hate me, that is an understatement. I have learned simply to take this as a fact. I don't care for their taunting and bad treatment. At the end of the day, I have my world, my retreat, and I don't care. They're not going to change me. I have no doubt in my mind. I know they despise me, but they despise me for being me. For being different. And I love that. I love to watch them torment me, knowing that they're not hurting me in the slightest. They see the shell, the instinct. But that's not me. It's not me who cries herself to sleep everynight, it's the person on the outside. It's Kirsten. But I'm not Kirsten, nor is Kirsten me. I am someone else entirely. When I write, my soul escapes, it seeps through my skin and Kirsten is swallowed up. You may call me Kirsten, but I much prefer Lost. It's much more apt and true. I'm not really Kirsten, you can talk to Kirsten, and Kirsten will reply. But it won't be me who's talking. It'll be Kirsten. By talking to Lost, you are talking to the philosopher, the writer and the thinker. Not the facade.
Where am I?
I don't really know. Where are we? A world? Human nature. I hate it. We are all born philosophers, right? Children quesion things, they question the world and why they're here. And then they learn to accept. Why accept? Why settle for the unknown when you can ponder, think, and stipulate? Why? Why is sex some sort of scandalous topic? It's obviously human nature, seeing as humans are a symbol of it. What is the point in having a child? So humans can live for longer? What's the point of living longer? Why? Do we have some sort of goal that is not yet realised? What would happen if we dwindled into nothingness? I don't know, but I will, and when I find out, I'll tell you. Why cure diseases? Are we working towards something? Is there a deity? Or do we each have individual gods, that cater to our individual needs? Is there such thing as fate? I don't think so, I like to believe that we make ourselves. But again I'm not sure, so I shall continue to ponder.
I am not happy unless pondering. Unless sitting beneath the window, reading my books and thinking. Pondering and writing. I can be most sure that if I was born two hundred years ago I'd most certainly be executed for thinking.
All I long to do is think. To think, and to write, and to read........
You will never understand me. And I do know what it's like, to love writing and reading, but I'm even more different. I go far beyond the boundaries of normality. I have long crossed the sea of regularity. You have no idea, by reading this you have not even half began to understand my way of thinking. You never will. And so I shall leave you, my faithful readers, to make your own conclusions. Kirsten is who you want her to be, but Lost, Lost is true. Lost is strong and philosophical. Lost is me, and I am Lost.
~~ No coward soul is mine ~~
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