When I was around ten/eleven-ish, I was told that I wasn't going to make anything of myself because I was a rebel and plainly different from the rest of my kin.
My individuality was not welcomed. Some laughed. Some rolled their eyes. A few even went out of their way to really drill that ugliness into my head. I was different. I knew that. BUT STILL. I was a kid and yet a lot of people disliked me. Not only was I beyond boggled, but I always wondered what it was. No matter what I did, good or bad, it was never enough. So I grew up that way. Pretty much lost and had no idea what the hell I was doing with my life.
For as long as I could remember, I always had that sense of no direction. Like my life didn't hold any meaning. If I had died then, it wouldn't have bothered me. It was sad, really. But I truly didn't care then. Nothing held meaning for me.
My life changed this year when I stumbled upon books for a whole week that didn't hold my attention. I used to read 2-5 books daily, and yet none of them sparked anything for me. I was above and beyond frustrated.
It was simply a random thought. Like taking up a new hobby, I decided to write my own book. For that entire time, I lived and breathed the plot that rioted in my brain. I didn't think I was more focused on anything other than completing my first novel. I wrote a book just to prove to myself that I could.
Little did I know that it was a start of something great for me. My love for fashion, food, my travels and my passion for books became one. Writing.
For the first time I've truly found something that I love. Something that no one can take away from me. It was mine. Art--be it poetry, music, painting--spoke to my soul. I thought my future held somewhere in fashion.
A random thought that led to something astounding. A passion where everything is limitless. Who would've thought it?
I sure as hell didn't.
I'm a lost girl no more.