* I am going to change perspectives here for a moment, and leave Kyson behind, as I move on to the other main character. I am still trying to figure out the best way to do this, but this is how I wrote her chapters, so I am posting it this way. I hope it is not too confusing. I would like suggestions for the best way to transition between the two main characters if I want to write from their perspectives.
I am a romantic feigning to be a realist. It wasn’t until my senior year at Salmon High that I was forced to come to grips with who I was. I had always had a wild imagination, fueled by my father’s stories, and those of our lovable farm hand, Rocco. I am a firm believer that you can never grow too old for stories, and should keep the magic of them in your life daily. That is probably how I got myself into such a mess. It was like I expected my Mr. Darcy, or my Gilbert Blythe to walk right into my life, but forgot that I was more like Josie Pie and Lydia Bennett then I would ever be an Anne or Elizabeth.
It was a Friday night, and I should have been out doing what most girls my age were doing on a weekend night, but I am not like most girls my age. Don’t get me wrong. I like clothes, boys, and girl stuff as much as the next girl, but I can’t seem to be as trivial as I see so many of my friends being. I can’t ever seem to get lost in clothes, boys, makeup, gossip, and the rest. So, on Friday night, while the rest of the kids my age are at a high school football game, on a date, at a party, or out with friends, I am here, sitting on the banks of the mighty Salmon River, and I write my thought in my journal. I have already been here several hours, and have filled several journal pages. I can’t help but voice my deepest questions aloud.
Can anyone ever be truly happy?
What is the point of everything?
How come I haven't ever been in love?
These and other question race through my head, leaving me feeling unsettled, and slightly distraught. There is nothing novel, or genius about my questions, or the ideas I record on paper, but I still feel them deep within my soul. To me, they are very personal. It is like getting the answers to these questions is as important to my survival as eating, sleeping, and breathing. It is as if I won’t have peace until I at least start to unravel their mysteries.
I am not a cynic, and I know questions like, “Can anyone ever be truly happy?” don’t paint me in a flattering light, but I can’t help myself. I live a charmed life. I have a family that are socially elite in our small town. I have a dad who loves my family, and works hard in his profession as a family practitioner, and in doing so provides us with a nice income. I have a mom who prepares home made meals, and always has the right words, and manners for every situation. I have a brother who adores me, and protects me, and who is one of my best friends. I have a big home, a nice car, a large group of friends. For all intents and purposes I should be perfectly happy. But I still feel pain, I still have insecurities, and I still find myself wondering if there is more. So, am I truly happy? I just don’t know. I sometimes wish I had a tragic story, a hard life, divorced parents, anything that would give me a concrete reason to feel this way.
I poured these and other thoughts into my journal, as if purging myself of the unrest, and allowing myself to fill with the peace that comes from displacing your burden. I was able for the first time that day to really relax, and let my mind go blank. I still have thoughts, but somehow, getting them onto paper gives my mind room to file them away, and just enjoy my surroundings.
I did. I laid back, looked at the stars, and listened to the quiet, but steady gurgle of the river as it laps at the confines of the river banks, and bubbles over stones beneath it’s surface.
I’m not sure how long I spent looking up at the stars, trying to pick out constellations, but only really succeeding in finding the dippers, and a few other basic formations. I am no astronomer. I am not even particularly interested in star gazing, it was just something relaxing to do as I let my mind wind down so I could go back inside my house and get some sleep. I had a big race the next day, and did not want my “bigger question” worries to hamper with my ability to focus on the running, the competition, and my position on my team.
I am a runner, it is a big part of how I define myself. I grew up on stories of my dad running through the mountains, racing in track clubs from age seven, and being quite the competitor all through high school, and even some of college. Both my parents ran track. My father, a distance runner. My mother a sprinter who mainly did hurdles. It is in my genes, and a part of who I am. However, that does not make it effortless. In fact, it takes extreme effort. Despite my determination, drive, focus, and will, I rank middle of my team, and each week it is a struggle to hang on to my varsity ranking. Each week I feel a sting of disappointment that I am not an Allstar. That I am not the champion athlete my parents were. I am good. There is no question I have a natural ability and talent, which are aided by my hard work and dedication. But I am not great. Not yet at least. I can’t seem to find whatever it is inside me that needs to change for me to go from being a good competitor and someone that helps my team win meets, to someone who really stands out.
I stopped my mind from going in this direction as I knew it would only lead to disappointment, frustration, and the inability focus, and I had to be focused for my race the next day. And so I pulled myself up off the damp ground, stuck my journal into my small backpack, and jogged the half-mile back to my house. I quietly opened the sliding glass door that leads to the kitchen, and walked through the kitchen, to the front hall of the house. I wordlessly climbed the stairs, avoiding the ones that creak because I did not want my mom or dad to hear me coming in. Not because I was doing something I shouldn’t, but because I wanted to avoid a lecture from my mom about spending my time at the river instead of being more social, and a question answer session with my dad about my race strategy for the next day. I reached the top of the stairs, and quickly turned left to go to my bedroom. I pulled my shoes off and left them outside my bedroom door, then closed it quietly.
The only light in my room was from the moon shining in from the windows, but it was plenty. In a way, it added to the peace I had already achieved at the river, writing in my journal, and voicing my most troubled thoughts aloud. I stripped out of my clothes, not even bothering with pajamas, knowing my shoes outside the room would ensure my parents knew I was home, and that neither would disturb my sleep the night before a race. If my twin brother decided to bug me, well, catching me in my underwear would serve him right for coming in without knocking. I was sure I would be embarrassed by it, but the chances of it happening were slim, so not worth considering. Rylie and I had a ritual, we talked at breakfast. There was little chance he would seek me out to talk tonight, especially since he was out with Braden, one of my best friends, and one of the people I trusted most to not let Rylie get into trouble.
I slipped under the thick down comforter of my bed and drifted off into a light, but restful sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment