The real me

This is written almost like a 'personal blog':) It's me reincarnated!

Enjoy xxxx

All I ever dreamed of doing was writing. Some people wanted to travel to Africa. Some wanted to marry a man wealthy enough to buy them those golden Dior heels. Some wanted that coveted medicine scholarship. But me? No. All I ever wanted was to write. For my writing to take me to Africa. For it to make me feel like I walked in a pair of the most glamorous heels in the world. For it to be worth more than any damn scholarship.  I wanted to write, not to be a writer, but to have a piece of my soul out here, so that I knew that it existed. So I could be reminded of the real me.  My soul needed air. It needed space outside of me, outside of my doubts, outside of my stunted dreams. Outside of my inhibitions. Outside my heartbreak. And it did. That’s why this is here. This piece of writing here. It probably won’t matter to anyone, ever. But to me, it does and quite frankly, understanding my own soul is better than having other people trying to understand it. 

So hi. I’m Lucinda Davis and I’m not perfect and I never plan to be. My imperfections personify me more than my attributes. It makes me feel more human knowing that I laugh like a hyena and that when I look to the moon, I stubbornly insist that there is a face lurking on its surface. I love the way I’m always cubby, the way I say I’ll study for math , when instead I have these ‘writing spasms’ that seduce my imagination and rape it onto a white page. Because this page is deceiving. It’s too virginal. It’s too clean. And the truth is, the secrets it will hold will be more dirty and repulsive than the colour black.  And, naturally, I’d use white paper to write it.

Truth is, life’s like a guitar. First you need to know how to play it and then you need to choose what you want to play. Who are you going to perform for? What strings will you use? What happens when you’re having one of those days when you feel like bashing it against the wall? Does it split? Can it be repaired? Will it ever play the same again? Will you ever perfect the melody? Will it ever reach your own expectations? What about if you go deaf? What then? What about if you’re sick of the guitar and want to play the piano instead? What if these questions are useless? What about if this whole page is a piece of junk? What if I’m too stubborn to admit that I’m a horrible writer? What if these questions are pissing you off? What happens if you close the screen?

Hmmm, one thing actually.

Chances are, once you close this screen, you won’t come back. And you’ll probably miss one minor detail about the purpose of this ‘bullshit.’ I’m 18-years-old and on the brink of death. And it’s not leukaemia that’s killing me. Or drugs. Or a psycho stalker. No. It’s my writing. It’s my soul. It’s me.