Oscar-Worthy Imagination at It's Finest

I used to pretend my life was a movie.

There would be certain moments, just a second's worth, of something that felt vaguely cinematic. It'd be beyond fleeting, but it was all my young self would need- I'd already be singing the crude theme and scrawling fake names with a purple glitter pen- imaginary opening credits, into a notebook.
I'd flip through the pages, pausing on the ones filled with the creators of this imaginary masterpiece, and then I'd make a point of acting as if I was on film (but, of course, was completely unaware of it. My 7-year-old acting skills were really quite something).



Sometimes when I would be riding my bike, around sunset, I'd giggle and let my hair go loose, and grin at invisible cameras, just to feel special. My movie would have no plot, and I never acted out any other scenes besides the opening- whatever the opening was on that particular day, of course. It changed every time.

I think the reason for my inability to move past that first scene, is because I kept wishing that it really was only the beginning. That like in films, the character's life only begins when you first see them- their entire life up to that point is irrelevant, and may as well have never even happened. You only see them at their prime, when something amazing is going on, the most incredible thing in their life.

And I wanted that.

I wanted my few years so far to be no more important then cars passing my street. I wanted something big to happen, something exciting, some prince to come and sweep my off my feet. (Preferably with fairies, mermaids or ballerina's involved- but hey, I would've taken whatever I could get my hands on.)

I was bored with the dull, menial tasks of the day-to-day. I wanted to think that someday, sometime soon, my life would become the kind of extraordinary tale that people read about for decades. I'd be a commonplace name; even those who'd never seen nor heard my story would have my name on the tip of their tongues. It was different, I think, from children who wanted to be famous- to be pop stars or astronauts or such.

What I desperately wanted was to cheat oblivion.



I would have no way of knowing the deeper meanings of my childish fantasies, back when I was still acting out my imaginary cinematic masterpiece. But it's almost blatantly clear to me now, that that's all I've ever wanted. It's a very human fear; being forgotten. And the funny thing is, I think it's only those who don't fear it that are able to escape it. Take Picasso- He will always be remembered. People flock for the mere chance to see one of his paintings, and God know's how much they go for- if any of them are even for sale. He has escaped one of the fates that looms over all but a select few of us: eventually, we will all be forgotten.

Even most movie stars, and eventually, singers are forgotten as well. There are few whose visages and voices ever last beyond their owner's lifetime. Everyone knows the name Angelina Jolie now- but 300 years in the future? Will anyone care about "Brangelina"? Your name can be up in lights for decades, and then shrouded in oblivion not a moment later. Of course, this can happen vice-versa as well. Anne Frank was just a normal girl, but she will now and forevermore be one of the main representatives of the Holocaust.



It's greedy and selfish and pathetically materialisitc, but I just don't want to be forgotten. I want people, somewhere in the future- I don't really care how many- to know who I am.

When I really think about it, though, I'm not sure why.

Why do I want people to know me? What good will it accomplish? I'll just be another household name- maybe an author that college kids dread to read? I won't be around to know my alleged fame anyway, so what's the point? Besides, I live an ordinary, hormonal and angsty teenage life. Nothing special here. If my life could be a food, it'd be beige and taste like water- that's how boring my life is.

And maybe it's because I don't have truckloads of friends? I want people to know all about me, because maybe then massive amounts of people would like me? I don't know. But even if I were to suddenly gain tremendous amounts of friends, it wouldn't do any good. Yet again with the terrible representations of John Green quotes here- in Paper Towns, he mentions how your view of a person is affected by yourself. Your own thoughts and perspectives tint your impression of them, until they're a totally different person then they actually are.

I wouldn't want friends anyway. Because they would all have their different views of me, their own separate versions, and each one would almost definitely be wrong. I mean, even the friends I have don't really know everything about me. Like I said in some past entry somewhere; I act differently on different websites. I think it's safe to assume that everyone does. Just because I wax pseudo-philosophical on here, and use stupidly "big" words, doesn't mean thats what I'm like in real life, or even on Tumblr. I was at writing panel the other day, and the teacher said something along the lines of "Every writer I've ever met has a mild variation of multiple personality disorder- I'm pretty sure we all have it to some degree."

And I remember just nodding along and grinning like an idiot, because she had quite simply wrapped up a quirk of mine that I've had for years. And it was comforting to know that other writers have it too. But the point here, is that I can long for friends as much as I like, but once I get them, they'll just be annoyances.



Ugh. Thinking about how personality facets correspond online vs. in the physical world makes my head spin: My theory about the purity of people's minds online is a bit hard when my own musings disprove it. I think that people's thoughts are unburdened by physical/racial/gender prejudice when online, and therefore are more themselves- which makes for easier friendships and corresponding ideals. But if I act differently on each site, then I'm no better then when I'm in public- except everyone is a bit more friendlier on the web. I guess people wil always be guarded to some extent: But then that makes me wonder if we guard ourselves subconsciously from our own consciousness?

Maybe I'm actually a totally different person at my core, with different wants and likes. And maybe my current persona is just that core, moulded and repainted and shaped by social ideals.

Bluh. I'm sounding stupid. I also had a point, somewhere in this big block of text, but it's decided to abandon me. Pardon me while I scroll back up and try to see how my make-believe acting gave way to the opposing theories of internet/physical socialization (I probably talk way too much about these theories anyway, don't I?).



Right, so I've determined yet another flaw/quirk/weirdness of my self.
My conversations, and/or blog posts, kind of meander their way away from the topic, slowly and stealthily, without my noticing, until I'm talking about something almost completely different.
The thing is, I'm not sure if that's a good thing to do as a blogger, or bad?

Like, if I rigidly kept to the topic I have in mind when first beginning a post, wouldn't that be boring? But maybe people only want to read about the opening topic anyway, and find it annoying when I branch my way off?
Hm. Not sure. I guess it's a help that I don't have many readers then, huh?

I probably sound pathetically bitter when I mention my lack of readers, but I'm actually kind of grateful. Stranger's reading my innermost thoughts isn't as concerning a topic to me as it probably should be, but in an unexplainable way, it's still kind of a relief that not many people ever happen upon this. And anyway, even if they were to find it, (if they had any common sense, and/or IQ) they'd run for the hills. This is a pretty boring blog, all things considered. I just bitch about my family, and use big words so I feel smart, and maybe even a tad bit special.


It's raining outside. I like the sound the drops make as they ping off the metal roof of the car-park.
Winnie's curled up near the foot of the bed, facing the wall. There's a half-nibbled bacon treat lying almost dangerously close to my feet, and the orange ribbon wrapped 'round my right wrist is a little distracting as I type.
Welp.
I always suck at concluding posts, huh?

So bye. Happy Friday the 13th. Finger's crossed nothing bad happens to you, dear reader.