I am Liv–sort of.
A fifteen year old teenager.
Full of dreams.
But God, I don’t know who I am.
I love words—you could say I identify with words. Finding the perfect word, finding the perfect quote, writing the perfect sentence.
Song lyrics, quotes, sayings, stories, novels, letters, notes. They all speak to me more than a conversation.
I’m a hopeless romantic, meaning that all I love are movies and books, no actual men.
I love cats. I think every woman destined to be an old maid does, it’s just fate.
I love coffee and tea. I love lemonade.
I love globes and antiques.
I love talking to imamate objects and trees.
I love the thought of adventure. Maybe it’s the idea of trying new things and being places I have never seen.
I love people I have never met, just watching in the distance as they make their coffee, as they talk to their more adequate friends, as they smile at me. I also people I have met, my family, my best friends, and some others I cannot think of.
I love to collect objects that have meaning to me, even if they mean nothing to anyone else. It always nice to have a home.
I love getting mail. There is something so profound about getting something that someone took the time to send.
I love helping people. Sometimes—other times my selfishness exudes and I become a horrible human being.
I love glamor. I love classic. I love beauty. I love symbols. I love irony. I love sarcasm. I love sparkling glasses. I love ancient objects. I love leather-bound journals. I love Ray-Bans in a sky-blue convertible—like something out of Nancy Drew.
But—I feel that’s only the surface Liv. The one that I talk about. The one I write about. The one I think people want to know, to love.
I’m immature, yet now I feel more mature. Summer has aged me.
I’m withdrawn and have a judgmental face. I’m outgoing and smile constantly.
I don’t have many friends—four close ones. And I’m always afraid I’ll lose them, like I’ve lost so many.
I’m always in a constant state of confusion, afraid of people, afraid of myself, afraid of my future.
I love to write, but I constantly feel as if I’m just writing for myself. No one enjoys it, not even me at times. I feel just as if I’m blabbering on and on.
I’m a coward, afraid to face my problems. But with plans to crush them one day. Plans to conquer the people who hurt me. All the bullies and gossips.
People find me annoying. Loud, quirky, weird, their stares drain me. My ‘friends’ make fun of me and slander me. I shouldn’t care about these things anymore, but I still do. The 6th grader still hurts.
The 6th grader hid her grief in sitting in the back of the room and her books. Book after book, quiet and unseen.
The 7th grader hid her grief in poems and alliterations. People said her poems were dark, they were, she knew why.
The 8th grader hid her grief in story after story. Stories full of fantasy. Stories of girls lost, just like her.
The 9th grader hid in music. Dark, melancholy, deep, music that spoke to her soul.
The 10th grader hides in movies. Stories, music, and books. She reads in between the lines.
That is who Liv is—boring, not interesting. Drowning in her own thoughts. Fighting herself. Just like the rest of world, sinful and hurt.
I find hope in a few things. Most importantly in Christ. He helps me lift the burden, and helps me forget my transgressions. And gives me hope for my future.
My true friends who somehow understand.
Nature. How intricate and how all it works together, just like my life will, maybe.
So with a pen in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, I slowly plod along in life.
I hope you still like Liv…
And I know I said I would be a while, but a week is a while really. For me. My blog is important to me. And I found out what I was missing.
Thank you for all the lovely comments I received when I ‘left.’ It’s sort of what brought me back in the end. Because you are beautiful, sweet, lovely people.
Thanks for liking my insignificant nook on the internet. It means the world to me.