Stolen Identity

I have only a sickening slot of 20 minutes to finish this piece I would so love to finish. There, Stolen Identity. I would first like to clearly apologise to the lack of daily laundry to post for the world to see. Where I come from, children from the age of 'able-to-take-exams' to 'able-to-explode-from-a-pandemonium-of-exams' have the mid-monster exams. Yes, while most of the world is having a lovely summer, basking in the warm and inviting sunlight, I am stuck with studies. Evidently.

This piece was inspired in the spur of the moment when a certain kin of mine whom I so much strive to excel ahead off now said she wanted to intern with a local magazine. I wanted to wring her by the neck and... Sixpense none the richer soothed me though. I am re-obsessing over Kiss Me.

I have tried so hard to deviate from the norm, and oh-so inspired statement from a certain literature text. I truly have. Everything that makes me, makes no one near me, anything like me. The word doctors were released from the lips of those who were our providers and supporters. The great lawyer occupation was the enforced on me at a tender age of nothing but 5. I didn't know exactly what this lawyer was, but I knew it would be something I aspire to be. True enough, she gobbled up the this privilege of aspiring to be one. I switched it up, changed a bit here and there so I could be different from her, so I would not be constantly compared. Yet again I failed.

My true first inspiration was a certain girl called Bianca Ryan. She is the first singer I've heard, to move me in a long time. I aspired in that split second, to be a singer. Cliched, I know. It was the first simple aspiration I had out of the tight expectations. It led to vocal lessons, and since we were kins, she too had them. After stopping the lessons, I was forgotten. Unremembered. Cut off from the fact that it was I who wanted to sing. I loved it. Yet, it was she who gained recognition for it, absorping my aspiration as her own, singing her soft praises were many. I hated it. I was hurt by it so deeply no one would ever know, or understand. Selfish! Supposed adults of the world might say. I say, If you would like to be so common like the rest of the minute cubby-holed prune of a person you are, leave me out of the picture. I want to shine, to the maximum potential all cliches can bring.

No one remembered my love for music. No one.

I wanted to be a journalist, and in the eyes of those who provide for us, if I aspire to be one, so should she. So they promote and advertise her to the world of the beauty she is. She truly is, my sister. No doubt.  She is pretty in ways. I do love her, my sister, yet, I want my own identity. So, I embarked on a journey far and beyond, uncovering my seemingly new found love for fashion, cosmetics and other materialistic jargon. It wasn't to fit in, It was to fit out. She wins yet again, overtrampling my sense of fashion, mocking so politely at what I wear. I didn't mind, I drank in the acid that stung. Now that she wants to work as an intern? I want to scream to God and beg him to take me away. I want to live far far away where oppurtunity arises FAIRLY, without providers to promote and advertise simply because someone was older and would experience things  first. STOP LIMITING THE POTENTIAL OF THE YOUNG SIMPLY BECAUSE OLD IS CONSIDERED MATURE ENOUGH. It should be a crime punishable by an endless rampage of angry and broken potential-charged kids, forever.

Stop enforcing your one child's dream to be the statement and proof of your unbiasness and equality in treatment. As much as a child can understand, driving him to the point of stangling bitterness for what you think is right is simply wrong. To those out there who feel like your identity's been stolen, don't give up. Ever.

Like Miley sings, "When my world is falling apart, when there's no light to break up the dark, that's when you look at dreams"

Maybe this post is just to encourage myself and ME only to not be crippled into a length of hurt. Maybe this post is a dillusion and a propaganda to rise an army of dreamers. I can imagine cant I?

So thus, I shall keep all I love to myself and this piece of sun that airs my laundry.

She can try to steal an identity that forms around her by expectations, but I am saddened that her true passion for dance has diminished.

"Limit the young, and they start limiting your love"
Translation: When you start limiting their potentials, they start wondering if you love them enough to except and nurture ther passion, then, they stop feeling your love.

What I want, she suddenly wants too. My growing love for all things with quality is stumbled on by her piercing words of my pickiness. How I should conform and adapt to different people so THEY feel comfortable. No, can't, do. I'm not gonna be a people pleaser, even if it means me going through depression ALONE.

Constantly equalise your children, and you'll realise that you have just cut off their potential almost immediatelt. OR, maybe you're just some evil bigger jack-in-the-box. Smiling for all the wrong reasons.

Regardless, my love for writing will never waver, for its the last thing I have, that she doesn't, and hopefully, does not know off.
I love writing, english, songs, music and all things unimaginable where I live. I will continue to be a part of that unimaginable, and I will grow. I will grow away, because though apples don't fall far from the tree, the seeds are different. The fruits will be eaten and the seeds will be spat out. Where it lands, is only for the seed to know...


Dreams

Take.
Give.
Plow.
Grow.
That's all I want to know.

The clouds.
I long to be
part of. Endlessly
floating.

- C

I will persist. I will persist. This deep hurt I feel spurs me only to aim higher, and yet, to only get far away from this deep embedded bitterness I cannot confess for I will be condemned.

I will grow up, live in USA and make it, then you go tell everyone that she loves to do what I do. I couldn't be bothered if thats all you say, cause along the years, my bitterness becomes numb, and I am used to it. Being used to it, doesn't mean I feel better about it. It simply means, I'm used to the excruciating emotional pain, and no, I won't say: until I can't feel anything, cause it hurts deep. And because it hurts deep, I feel it so often, its regular. The action that is...

So I float I fly, I try. Its not good enough cause I'm not her. So, just have her. Set me free.