Young Writers Society

I am currently running laps around the inside of my garage. I keep stopping to breathe, laugh, shake my head, and then continue while my face attempts to break itself in half with a (would you call it a . . . grin.

It appears I have stopped running. I am now panting . . . also jumping up and down. A bit of flailing is now occurring, and the maniacal giggles are finally coming to a slow. Fanning . . . fanning myself. Ah, okay. Gosh darn, goodness’ sake’s! Okay, yes, okay. Hmm . . . Okay, yes. I am good, I am fine, it is over, it is done.

I will not read it again.

Of course, I am now jogging up the steps and through the door. There it is . . . how can it lie there so innocently, when it has instilled such emotion inside of me? It, - no, they - should not be allowed to do this to innocent human beings. Oooh, but what would I do with my sad self if not for them? What would I wait for, think about, talk about every waking moment? Who would I imagine, dream futures for without them? What a sad, pitiful life that would be.

I am picking it up, opening it, thumbing through the beautiful, no-longer-mysterious pages. Oh, the smell of page pressed upon page! Aaaaaaand . . . there. There it is. Such a page. Such a passage.

I am scanning. I am rereading. No. I do not believe it. Yes! YES! Aaaah . . . my life . . . what am I going to do with myself? My thoughts? Stupidity; pure, simple stupidity is what I am made of . . .

I am running. Yes, yes I am. I need to get out of here. I have left it behind, lying innocently (why the innocence? Can it not do itself some justice?) on the couch. Through the door, through another door. Now I’m punching the buttons, pressing in the code. Leaping onto the black seat, kicking up the metal rod, pushing and pulling my feet. Back and forth. Up and down. Out, out down the driveway, across the sidewalk, the street. Out to the sunshine, no shade for me! I will live today.

The straps of my helmet are swinging gently against my neck. I should secure them, but there is much, much too much be thinking about, doing.

Ooooh, where will I go with my thoughts? Up the hill? Yes! To the glade, the forest, the trees, the pixies, the trolls, the magic, the heavens, the moon to look down at our tiny world? Yes, I do believe so. After all, I am such a tiny part of it, shouldn’t I explore, feel like I am at least a tiny bit connected to my surroundings?

Oh, my thoughts. Spinning, whirling like the wheels beneath me. How . . . no . . . I cannot believe it . . . they wouldn’t . . . she wouldn’t . . . it can’t be . . . I . . . no . . . they . . . we . . . stupidity, pure and simple stupidity.

But the future! What happens in the future? What will I do with myself? Or more importantly, what will they do with themselves? I must know!

No. I must not, will not. I . . . it is fake. Unreal. A fantasy, unrealistic. Not possible. Fiction.

Nothing said, done, was real. These people do not exist. Neither do these emotions.

It appears to be that I have turned around. I have left the moon, the stars, the trolls, the pixies, the woods, the glades, the hill. I am in suburbia. Look, there is my home. Look, here is my garage. I am now in it. Look, the code has been pressed and pushed in, the door rolled down. I am up the steps, inside the house. There it is. Or, there it was. It is now sitting upon its brethren in a pile upstairs in my room. I have a new one now, fresh from the pile beside the old. I will read, fantasize, reread, love, reread again, think, and discard.

But for now, it is new. And when they are new, books never get old.