~set the {world} on fire~ // isabella

[main;82ABA7]
[speech;297D95]
[emphasis;A0D4A4]
[adhd;278064]
[other;EEE7D5]

My dreams are much darker than you'd expect them to be.

But nothing is ever as bright as I'd prefer; someone told me once upon a time that I was a child of the light and the name always stuck with me after that because it's the gospel truth that I shine too brightly but never in a good way i'm not so much gleaming as i am blinding and maybe that's why no one ever looked my way to fit into this dank subterranean basement in which I've spent every day and night of my nineteen holy hell i'll be twenty in a few months where has the time gone and when did i get so old? years. And maybe that's the problem. During my waking hours I'm this too-bright-too-fast glowing beacon of unceasing motion, leaving my subconscious to descend to frightening depths when I'm too far into the hold of sleep to keep my insecurities from worming their way to the forefront of my mind.

There are a million variations my mind has to go run move even when my body can't and it's impossible for me to do something with any predictability because structure is something i will never know that lead to the same ending (how many times do I have to watch Ophelia shake her head and walk away? How many times do I have to see Ro laughing and sharing the smile that's mine with a shadowy stranger - sometimes it's Ophelia and I fear my heart will just shatter into a pretty mess all over the canvas of my soul right then and there - with more wit and a better kiss and more everything than I'd ever be able to offer? How many times do I have to hear the faceless form that must be my father saying that he doesn't want me?), but in the end they always leave. Every last one of them. Everyone always leaves.

And maybe it makes me weak, maybe it makes me needy, but that crushing loneliness inside my own head is worse than any torture I could ever imagine.

"J, you've got to leave in ten or you'll be late for work, get moving!"

"Mmmwha?" My eyes barely crack open only to be accosted by the phosphorescent glow of my alarm clock cutting through the otherwise inky darkness of my room, the blinding-bright numbers announcing to the insides of my now scrunched-closed eyelids that it's 7:45 in the morning. A couple seconds of foggy half-reasoning and then I flop back to the surface of my rumpled sheets with a pathetic groan, yanking blankets over my head. "But it's Sunday."

The door clicks open and I hear the faint flick of a switch before light floods the room, prompting me to whine like a wounded puppy and throw a pillow over my face to block out something that must be similar to looking into direct sunlight. When Mom finally says something it's in that tone of voice that means she's sitting somewhere between amused and ticked-off, and it's the knowledge that I don't want her crossing that line into the realm of death-glares and being forced to wash the dishes for a week that makes me peek out from my cocoon of bed linens and make an effort to listen to her instead of rolling over and going back to sleep. "No, Jace, it's Monday. And as of right now you have six minutes to get out the front door."

"Shit!" Maybe two seconds and I'm out of bed, fumbling frantically through my closet and pointedly ignoring the Jace Vincent Wheaton, watch your language! that cuts sharply through the air. Sure, I don't look put-together even at the best of times there's too much going on all at once and it just blurs together in this horribly wonderful whirlwind and how could i ever focus on something silly like how i look, but by the time I fly out the door at precisely 7:55 with shirt wrinkled and vest buttoned up wrong and tie in a mess comparable to the Gordian knot, I look about as far from professional as it's possible to get.

When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have never thought I'd be a teacher. Why on earth would I want to be one of those people that made my life a living hell, threw me in detention faster than I could protest, constantly looked at me with that awful judgement they can tell me that i'm not my disorder all they want but i know better because when someone looks at me all they ever see is adhd that I've spent my whole life trying to escape? Teaching music never occurred to me until I was actually doing it, watching all the kids like me (underdogs, outcasts, the ones the world left behind) bloom and grow and smile for once when they found out that each of them has something inside that can create something beautiful. And now I can't ever see myself doing anything else, even though the fact that I love my job (sometimes) and that I think I'm pretty good at it gets lost a lot but everything gets lost because i can never hold onto something when the whole world slips through my fingers behind the fact that the glares and the knowledge that I'll never be good enough is ever-present.

"You've got a new student transferring into your eight o'clock class, Wheaton," the secretary (Mandi? Marci? I never stopped to learn her name because she never stopped to look at me like I was something other than a speck of dirt marring her perfect nails) drawls when I dash into the office to grab a stack of papers on my way to the music room, prompting a raised eyebrow before I turn on my heel and hurry back down the hall. Getting kids in this district to sign up for a music class is rare, but having someone actually transfer in skirts along the edge of impossibility. Still, I'm not one to question it questioning and thinking coherently are things that just take too much focus and i can't i just can't and no one ever seems to get it as I go flying into the music room (only five minutes late, it must be some kind of record) with a wide grin stretching across my face - because these kids in front of me are what makes it all worthwhile - sitting on top of the desk and twirling a drum stick between my fingers with an agility that speaks of endless practice (there are people who say I'm never good at anything but sometimes if I drum hard and loud and long enough I can push their voices out of my head).

"Good morning, sunshines! Happy Monday and all that crap. So, today we're starting on my favorite part of the curriculum -" Rapidfire rhythms work their way from my hands through the sticks and out across the surface of the desk in a million sharp clicks that make the world slow down just the tiniest bit there's just something about drumming that works better than those pills they always tried to give me and sometimes i can lose myself in it and it's the only thing that keeps me somewhat sane until it stops and the room fades back into relative quiet. "Percussion fundamentals! That's right, we're going to be hitting stuff with sticks and making lots of noise this week. Fun times await us. But first, I heard we've got a new transfer? You can go ahead and introduce yourself, wherever you are."