Bastian Nicholas Wren - D5 - Done

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see em bloom, for me and for you
and I think to myself
what a wonderful world

My finger squeaks against the mirror when I drag it over the clouded glass, drawing a face in the condensation left behind by my shower. In my reflection, I put on a real smile to match it, one with a spread of almost(they're getting there)-white teeth and a pair of pale pink lips, bigger on the top than on the bottom. Even though it makes my black pop-eyes stick further outward and squint even more, and it makes my nose turn upward even further than usual, I smile all the time (you're never fully dressed without one, grandpa says.). The fog clears enough for me to see my whole face, eyes and a mouth and a nose painted on a canvas of clear, peaches-and-cream skin, but the mirror doesn't stay spotless for long; I shake the water from my head like Saja does when she comes inside after a rainstorm, sprinkling the glass with droplets that sparkle like tiny crystals even in the icky fluorescent lighting of my bathroom. I towel dry my hair the rest of the way, because if I know if I just let it air dry, it'll get all wavy, and I like it straight. I've kept the same hairstyle going for so long--dark brown locks hanging flat against my forehead, reaching to my eyes--that I suppose some people don't even know what my eyebrows look like. In fact, maybe I'll just keep it a secret. (It's a mystery! Ooooooh!)

I close and lock the door before I let my towel drop from my waist to the carpeted floor of my bedroom. After fishing through my dresser for a moment, I pick out some underwear, a light blue t-shirt, and a pair of jeans, and I put them on in that order. You'll hardly ever see me dressed in black; I love any and all colors, especially the ones with names like persimmon and periwinkle and chartreuse, because they sound impressive when you say them out loud. I like to think I have a good fashion sense, although Emalee said once that all the bright colors just make me stick out like a sore thumb. But hey, I mean, sore thumbs aren't so bad, right? (They're waaaaaay better than severed ones.) Anyway, it makes me happy to dress like this, so it doesn't really matter to me if I look a little out-of-place or not.

I'm not very tall compared to a lot of boys my age--about five foot seven and a half(although I will get bigger, I just know it)--and I'm skinny too, clocking in at a whopping one-hundred and twenty pounds. My muscles aren't anything special, either. I'm trying to get some more meat on my bones by exercising and eating more food, and I think it's starting to work a little. Maybe I'm just a late bloomer or something, because the other boys I go to school with already have deep, rumbly voices and big muscles and long legs, and the only thing puberty has given me so far is a crackle in my voice and a bunch of hair that I don't want. (I guess it's a good thing I'm patient.) I'm comfortable with my body, though; I'm not ever gonna get another one, so I might as well be happy with what I've got. (Always look on the bright side, right?)

I do a belly-flop onto my unmade bed. Grabbing a leather-bound notebook and a pencil off my dresser, I begin to write.

I see skies of blue, clouds of white
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
and I think to myself
what a wonderful world

Dear Journal,

I'm going to write in you now, because my old journal is full already. Mom says I go through notebooks like I go through underwear, and I guess she's right. (Well, I mean, if you're not taking that literally. I change my underwear every day.) It's just, I'm always always always writing. Constantly. All the time. You'll hardly ever catch me anywhere without a pencil in my hand or in my pocket. The world is so huge, and there's so much to write about; thoughts, experiences, dreams, stories I make up in my head. And there are so many words! Just when you think you've heard all of them, out pops another one, like "snood," or "vilify," or "juxtaposition". It's fascinating. I mean, there are only twenty-six letters, but the amount of words we have is probably around the number of people we have in Panem, if not more. And these little combinations of letters--just symbols on a piece of paper--can do so much; they can make us laugh, or yawn, or even cry, or just completely change the way we think altogether. There are little ones like "love" that speak volumes and big ones like "conviviality" that mean hardly anything at all. I like to say that I collect them, the same way some people collect bugs or different plants. When I hear one that I don't recognize, I find out its meaning somehow, and I write it down in one of my notebooks. Someday, I'd like to write something that really moves people, something that really makes them feel something, but I don't think I'm at that level yet.

I suppose that since you're a new notebook, and we've never spoken before, I should tell you a little about myself. My name's Bastian Nicholas Wren, and I'm fifteen years old. You've probably already guessed that words are my favorite thing, although they're neck-and-neck on my favorites list with colors and life. I have an older sister and two older brothers, and an old mutt named Saja--a pretty normal family, all in all.

People are always asking me why I'm so happy all the time, and I'm always like, "Why are you so sad all the time?" Optimism comes to me as naturally as breathing, it's just who I am. Dwelling on the bad things in life will get you nowhere; it's never gonna make you a better person, or make you new friends. It only poisons you and messes you up and stresses you out, so that you turn into this grumpy grouch that no one wants to be around. The way I see it, if you think about the good things and do the good things, more good things are going happen to you. You know that look on someone's face, that grin that lets you know you've made their day? Sometimes seeing that can make you feel even better than a hot shower in December. I'm always trying to help, always trying to make that smile appear on someone's face. And I get along with just about everybody.

But I'm not perfect. Sometimes it's hard, being the one person who's there to cheer everyone up. I know I said I don't dwell on the bad, but I'm only human, and even I get frustrated sometimes. What happens when I'm the one who's down in the dumps--who's gonna be my shoulder to cry on? Because everyone cries sometimes. No one can keep smiling forever, you know, no matter how much we try.(If we all did that, our face muscles would feel like jelly by the end of the day.). Emotions weren't made to stay cooped up inside our hearts, not even the bad ones; they've got to go somewhere. I guess that's what I have you for, Journal, as an outlet for my frustrations and feelings. But sometimes I wish I just had a real person to confide in. (No offense.) Hmm, what else?

Oh yeah, and I change my mind

the colors of a rainbow so pretty in the sky
are there on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do
they're really saying I love you

There must have been a three-year period in which my parents were really busy, because Silvy, Elliot, Emalee, and I are all very close in age. Emalee came first (which means she's the princess, in her mind anyways), and then a year later came Silvanus and Elliot (In that order, approximately thirty-three minutes apart). Then, a year after that, out popped little ol' me, six pounds and eight ounces of soft, pale skin and dark hair. Mom said things got really crazy about two years after I was born, when she had four kids old enough to run around an get into everything but too young to know what "no" meant. She said it was too bad that she had been in her twenties by then, because after all that she boasted that she could get through the Hunger Games any day of the week.

I had been a curious kid growing up, always nosing into everything and getting into things I wasn't supposed to be getting into, especially when I was just learning to talk and my parents had to childproof the entire house. I was dead-set on discovering everything I could about the world. Mom and Dad say I had been really intelligent, but I never got above-average grades in school--I still don't. I'm prone to random space-outs, and usually by the end of a class period I can't remember what we had been talking about, so I end up asking someone else to teach me. I learn at my own pace, I guess.

I've always been the baby of the family, and I suppose the position has its perks. We've never really had to struggle with money--although we're far from rich--so growing up, I pretty much got whatever I wanted. (Yeah, I was a little spoiled, but my parents taught me good values, so it's all good.) But fifteen has been kind of a strange age for me so far, because even though I'm more than halfway to adulthood, my parents are still learning that even though I'm their little baby, I'm not a baby anymore. My mom's a little overprotective, and she still gets nervous about leaving me home alone or letting me walk to the Square by myself. I'm growing up, and she needs to loosen my reins. I think she will, eventually. At least, I hope so.

I chew on my pencil eraser and stare at my last sentence for a moment before deciding that I should probably wrap up the introduction if I want to have any room left in the notebook for other journal entries. Have I really used up six pages already? Time really flies when I'm writing, I suppose. Three more words, and then I'll be done, I think, pressing the point of my pencil once more against the paper.

Sincerely yours,

Bastian.



{ooc- Elegant has permission to share this face claim with meeeeee!!!!}