prologue

 

ladder

 

epilogue

 prologue 
sea
desert
jungle
quarry
urbanity
antiquity
ocean
 epilogue 
   

       D1.4.1
       mask 

     

One day the girl decided to take apart her mask.
Naked and afraid, she faced the mirror of truth alone.

She shivered and began to rub at a face that she no longer knew;
But,
No matter how hard she rubbed, the face would not go away.
It only became redder and redder .

Disgusted and beat, the girl grabbed a bottle of her best make-up.
She threw it as hard as she could at who she thought she was...

 

Anthology of Inspiration  
    

And,
She smashed the mirror.

In the broken glass,
(which cut her fingers when she picked up the pieces)

She finally found what she had been killing herself all this time to find.
Her self.
                                                        ----------------

 

Dear Creative Writing Instructor reading - Hold the panic button.

Believe me. I too wince at all the cliché poetic imagery in the work above. And yes, if I worked on it, it could absolutely turn into a dynamic, noble and worthy-of-pretentious-esteem poem.

But that isn't what this experience was about.
(In addition, trying to write an 'utterly original' Rite of Passage of the Hero in an Epic Tale is my opinion of a room in Hell.)

This piece is not written to spin your head with literary merit. 

This simply was my blood-letting, rite of passage. It wasn't monumental. 

But, it was entertaining. You should have seen it, like a B-movie actress milking every cheesy drop, I acted it out in ultra slow motion. Oddly enough, I actually managed to conjure up my spirit for an insightful vision quest. 

And when I was done, I was ready to go on to the next page. Hang-ups gone.

And really, let me point out the apparent. If you have read this far into this book sequentially, you already must already know it: I AnyaHard am a full-on, red-blooded American drama queen.

In fact, screw the next page, lets go to the silver screen.

 


©2001 AnyaHard.com