without a word {mylee

The sound of paper crunching together irritates me, and I would always make this face to which my sister would always say something about how my buckteeth made me out to look like a rabbit. (I would then tell her to shut up, and she would throw me a cold shoulder after mocking the slow speed in which I talk in, before she walked away.) So I don't cruch paper up into balls or shred them down into tiny pieces and use them as paper mache or anything of the like, and throwing paper into the garbage that seems to always over flow is not as sastifying. Mother always said that I was creative, and, despite Saffle's remarks, I believe what she said to an extent. Creativity is not a skill or hobby that you can work at to evolve to the levels you wish, creativity is an establishment. An establishment, at which you are either given a job and an oppertunity, or you are shut down as fast as the drug store that used to be open for a week but was replaced by a more smog-intoxicating building. In easier terms, you either have it,

or you don't.

But of course, I've been lead to believe that, by society's views, that I am creative enough to help aid the poor textiles industry that has the rest of the community practically bending over in front of so they are not viewed as different. But that's it. Just creative enough to live out my life to the fullest potential that's spoonfed into my measely grateful mouth since I was not even old enough to remember. Ingenous enough, only to build, and weave, and craft, and burn, and cut, and sew, and cry, and die.

And I have to accept that, and I do fairly well. Like I said, I do believe I am creative, to an extent. That being an emphasis on extent, because knowning your weakness can not help, nor harm you. (that being a quote from some newspaper clipping I glued to a bilboard at some point, but I liked it so I kept it.) I am certainly creative enough to write a certain amount about the likeliness of creativity itself, but that is only basic. As I have said before, and hopefully for the last time, I have ammends with my level of originality and style of work, and I have come to ammends with the fact I will remain at this level as it is a born with nature, not a sport where the more you practice will force the weak bones in your limp arms to grow tenfolds and make everybody love you.

Earlier I mentioned the likes of crumbling up paper and my disinterest in the sounds it gives off into my ears, mostly because it makes me cringe like when my sister decided to try to cut a chalkboard one day. One thing that does intrest me is staying updated, and keeping things in track. My wall, for instance, is constantly under repair as people tend to have their faces change once a week, either by growing their head some, or their eyes got darker, or maybe their hair was cut off by their little siblings amongst their sleep. Whatever the reason, I am the one responsible for making sure the changes are accounted for, processing polaroids and scribbling their names back onto their personal plaque, before returning it to their reserved place on the walls adorning the four corners of the most far back room. But for some reason

people
keep

dying.

Among my years of breathing in air and breathing out a differiation of carbon molecules, alone 36 kids have died from my district from a simple game alone, but these games are constant and have not effected me at all so they do not bother me much. It is a shame that two faces from my wall have to find their way somewhere else because of it, but again, they are constant and older than I so I can not sweat over what I can not change. This year two more kids were reaped, both of which I had no memory of besides the fact the girl's 'face' was lying on my wall next to a Mr. Rubik Woodards and Mr. Hitch Woodards. The boy of course, had not made it far like most were predicting and I had not seen him around so his face was never on the wall, but the girl went up in flames in some freak course and crushed the main 'Hope' around the district. (considering she's dead, it's disrespectful to joke about her, but I could not resist.) Trying to hold some respect however, I usually wait until the games are properly ended before I dispose of the tribute's photos.

Oh, but the games have ended.

So now I reach the point I meant to be addressing when I started, but got off topic by senseless rambling about creativity and virtues. I hate the sound of crumbling paper, so I always try to think of something easier on me to celebrate their departure from my wall of faces. Last year, I did something simple and burn them, as they both died in the bloodbath I had not grown attatched to them and had not cared much either. But this 'Hope' girl seemed to be important, as many people mentioned a male, 'Pandora', when she was brought up, so to celebrate their reunion, I wanted to throw an extra thoughtful party.

So I let her evolve into a sailboat.

My mother taught me how to fold paper into different objects and shapes because she loved it herself. When I was young and she, still alive, she would bend and pull slips among slips of paper and hook strings through the backs of each, whether it be a swan or a boat or a piece of paper. Later, she would hook them onto tiny holdings of our window ceils, and my sister and I would stare at them while sitting atop of my tiny bed that was positioned directly in front. Of course, we do not do that much anymore, since neither her nor I seem to have hooks spare around.


Nevertheless, I took the tiny girl out of my collection after being verified by Saffle that I picked the right one, (after, give or take, a few tries) because I prefer being anything other than obsolete. To create the metaphor, I wanted to set her out on water, because she is finally free to sail her own ship. Also, she was burnt alive, so I guess the water would be more satsifying now. Considering the current state of tear downforest, build houses,

down forest, build houses-

tear down forests-

build houses-

tear down forests-

build-
houses-

state of things, finding a lake or pond not on the side of a street is near impossible. The only type of water mass that could actually amount to enough water for the tiny queen to rule would be the tiny lake running through barely an impressive amount to be covered by a bridge. But it exists, and it is good enough,

so I go there.

The rain pouring down does not help much, but the paper is laminated so it would not be burned or soaked and force me to redo my entire wall collection, because I prefer keeping things orderly, you see. Again, the tiny lake coated with sand to act as a barrier on each side is not of impressive size so the walk over there is not as short as Saffle makes my attention span out to be. Nothing of too much intrest occurs because the district's activity is burning down, as it is raining and cloth shrinks when wet, and the tiny glimpse of remaining sunlight is burning down for the day anyways. I passed an adolescence younger than I rub his sticky fingers over some conveinent store's merchandise and walking out with some of the candy still stuck to his tiny fingers, but the rain pounding against the dead hair protecting my head was aggravating to an extent. Instead of helping, I countined walking because the teen seemed to know what he was doing.

and I know what I am doing.

I do not need somebody to tell me how to finish the job I have been doing for years at least, so I did not need to help a stranger to carry through with the act he started. Plus, it would have slowed down walking across the district to some grubby river high fiving each droplet of rain that fell into its embrace. Considering my already wet state, the thought of catching even more water in the evershrinking wool woven shirt that somebody around me I do not even recognize made did not seem to bother me, so I sat with my legs crossed on the gritty sand, because I know what I am doing. The boat-girl that had been cupped ever so lightly in my hands for the entire walk over had now become nestled onto the wet ground, but I could not place it in the water.

Because I do not know what I am doing.