"There's a reason why people yearn for cliches. There's a reason why emotions like love and storylines about the lion falling in love with the lamb are so sought after. It's because once you experience these stories for yourself, you don't know how...
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"I walked through-"
Scrap that. No.
"I trudged my way through-"
Ew. No.
"I kicked all the daises I could find-"
No. FUCK.
Florence tore the page in front of her for the 13th time, huffing at the crossed out words and insufficient poetry.
After coming home from work earlier, Flor now not only had to write a poem- freehand, at that- but would also have to show up with an essay written about the stylistic devices chosen in said poem and the meaning behind them. It was a task that she had oft completed with no worry, but tonight seemed to be weighing on her immensely.
Her mind was drained of all creativity. Or perhaps not creativity, but the ability to like anything that she would write.
Sighing, she swiveled around on the chair inside of her desk and trudged her way back to her bed, kicking pieces of scrunched up notebook paper lying on the floor. What was there in her life that she could possibly write about tonight?
Usually, Florence stuck to writing warm, light, pleasant things... Like descriptions of nature on a summer's night, or the way a smile could transmit a thousand meanings. Her writings were what made her feel comfortable and safe. Rarely did she taint her writing with the angst she really felt going on in the back of her mind.
If she could stop controlling the topic of what she writes, however, maybe the girl would let herself write about heavier topics. Her relationship with her dad would be a good place to start. Or, maybe, she could go meta-fictional, and write about how writing was her safehaven.
Maybe I've been too safe lately, Florence thought. Too safe in her writing, but also in the way she was living. I've tried to protect myself from everything, since... she continued thinking. Everything, since... she repeated in her mind.
Taking a moment to breathe, Florence turned her gaze out her window to follow the flight of two birds making their way across the pink sky- not a cloud in sight.
Since when I lived in Forks.
At admitting something personal to herself, Florence looked up at her hands and began tracing over her knuckles slowly, twisting the rings she wore as she went over them. Living in Forks had left an emotional imprint on her a long time ago.
But that was 8 years ago. Florence took in a shaky breath. It wasn't that she wanted to remember her past, but she found that if she ignored her memories for too long, the physical consequences -panic attacks, restless nights, lack of appetite- would sneak up on her. It was fascinating to her how emotional causes have such physical effects.
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