Catch 22

Deirdre sat amongst her classmates, only enduring the field trip bus ride, and not enjoying it. Odd how life had changed from exhilarating and mysterious to only static. Once there was a time when she would write for the freedom and pleasure. Now she wrote for others. If there was anything genuine in her words, they remained protected in her journal. The words used to look like code,with scratches and scrawlings and circles and underlined words....Deirdre's own language. Now, for pleasure of others, for acceptance, for neatness, Deirdre was careful of the word's cleanness. Her writing was beautiful, her erase marks unnoticeable, her form perfected. Only...the words were not the same. She had mutated into an obsessive sentential protecting bones of beggars. Somewhere, something went wrong and now she wrote from someone else's point of view. Who knows what the answer was. It was blissful freedom to write...now it was rare. When she exposed herself, she shouted that she was unmysterious and the unmysterious are forgotten as worthless additions to society. What people once fought for in her was now open and pleasing to the critical eye. Before she expressed herself, she was happy with herself. What possessed me to think I needed to give my words to the world to be happy? I need to start over. Restoration requires death...as she had once told a dear brother, "An oak is ugly when its burned...but that's what it needs to continue growth to become better." She hated eating her words. She hated her double standards and her embarrassing lack of social skills. Life was like a knotted snake at this point. A beautiful snake consumed in eight million things until it tied itself to suffocation. Her recent lack of sleep and excessive caffeine shots made her physical heart feel it was poisoned. Poisoned with exhaustion, with lack of art, and foreign love. It seemed that the only music that calmed her was instrumental, bereft of words to warp her demeanor in any way. The only person that could make her laugh was her brother, and he made her laugh long, with an influx resulting only from its starvation. Deirdre stared out the thick windowpane, and without realization of the fact, fell asleep.
Deirdre was atop a tree, higher than humans, observing their curious ways. Love, hate, nothing new under the sun. She was a narcissist to the rotten core. She had built tacky cheap houses with her vital organs. Now she wanted them back. Even if it required destruction.