Sunny Hemmings {D8/FIN}
Apr 11, 2014 18:27:30 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 11, 2014 18:27:30 GMT -5
Y O U R E C R A Z Y A N D I M O U T O F M Y M I N D
S U N N Y H E M M I N G S
DISTRICT8 | SEVENTEEN | FEMALE
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S U N N Y H E M M I N G S
DISTRICT8 | SEVENTEEN | FEMALE
_______________________________________________________
It’s not the buzz of the kitchen or the sound of the door slamming that wakes me from my sleep, no, it’s the golden rays of sunlight that stream through my uncovered window. I’ve nagged my parents time and time again to fix it, and they’ve always promised to get around to it eventually. I’ve tried old pieces of cardboard and dark shirts taped by the sleeves, but nothing has really worked. It’s only been a temporary fix. Just like the roughly sewn seams on my clothing or the ripped pieces of fabric I use to tie my long, amber hair out of my face with. Eventually the strings rip, the strips of material fall out. I have to go back and fix it again, and again, and again.
If it wasn’t the lack of physical strength, or “meat on my bones,” as my mother put it, I would assume that I would appear nice enough for my mother to quit making nagging remarks about it. She’s always slapping double portions of what little we have on my plate, and giving me a glare every time I play around with the bits and pieces on the end of my fork. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s that I simply can’t stomach it, but that answer never satisfies her. My dad tends to come to my side, and he shoots me a sympathetic look as my mother’s looking the other way. He then comes up with calming words to put my mother’s determination to rest, and he finishes off what’s left on my plate. I’m careful to be quiet as I pick up my now-finished plate and push my chair back in, setting the dish on the counter and rounding the short corner back to my confining room.
It’s there that my dark eyes stay fixed on inanimate objects, pulling them apart and putting them back together in different ways. Some of the things I haven’t figured out, and their pieces stay strewn across the cardboard boxes I’ve lined up in place of a desk. There’s the pen that I plan on figuring out now, and the simple machine parts from the factory where my father works that I haven’t quite figured out yet. A smile crosses my face at the sight of it all, as I know that the night, even though it will be void of sleep, will be full of something else—something I can’t quite put my finger on.
If you asked one of my nonexistent friends how they would describe me, it would most likely be some variation of the word determined, though it may be put in context closer to something of obsessive. But then again, I don’t have friends to ask, so that gives me the free rein of describing myself. I’m not obsessed, I’m simply stuck on the same track, the same notes playing over and over and over. I can never get past one certain point, in fact, I’m constantly going back and checking it over and over, just to make sure it’s been finished completely. Maybe that’s why the temporary fixes that plague our home have never suited me, because the fact is, one day I’m going to check the cardboard over the window and realize it’s fallen down, and then, how will I ever be sure that it’s still up? It’s a never-ending cycle that leaves me without making any progress.
So the question still remains, how have I made any progress, ever, if I’m still stuck on the same record? The answer is simple, I haven’t. I’m still fiddling with the same objects that I did five years ago, when I picked up the habit of pulling things apart and putting them back together. But I haven’t finished any of them, because I can never seem to get it just right, so in turn, I’ll pull the pieces apart and try again, but it doesn’t matter, because I can never get it exactly how I want. The only results I’ve gotten are the feelings of frustration that hang over my head, and the pieces that fall neglected on the floor.
However, it’s not only frustration that comes with the deal, it’s calm and happiness and peace all wrapped around the thread of a screw. People wonder how something can bring about such different feelings at about the same time, but really isn’t that how anything is? For example, if I was to go out and run a mile in the blistering heat, I could make the assumption that I would be out of breath, sweating, and just generally feeling utterly disgusting. However, someone would also tell you that that brings about a sense of rejuvenation, like you’ve accomplished something, and accomplishment tends to lead to a feeling that can be equaled with positivity. It’s then that you’ve encountered good and bad, and that’s the way I would describe what it’s like when I tinker with the nuts and bolts that lay in front of me.
It was a late night in spring that my father flung open the door, as he returned from work, his hands full of boxes of all different sizes, some looking brand new and others as if they had seen better days. He handed something to my mother (I can’t recall what, as I was too focused on the boxes he had set at his feet). He handed one of the smaller ones to me and simply told me to, “Go wild.” I took his command to heart and dragged the box behind me to my room, its contents too heavy for me to lift up for even the short distance. Unfolding its lid was like unlocking a buried treasure chest, and to me, the contents inside were just as good as coins of gold. My mother had walked an hour or so later, telling me that I needed to go to sleep, and that those “things” could be played with later. I had temporarily complied to her request and crawled under the covers, waiting until the hall light went out to tiptoe back and resume my explorations.
She came in the following morning to find me asleep, my head resting against the box. She just rolled her eyes and called my father in, most likely to show him what he had started, because no matter what happened, ever, it was either my fault, or my father’s fault. My mother firmly stands behind that fact that she’s faultless, and refuses to cross that line, no matter how apparent the evidence is. She pulled him back outside of my door and scolded him, and the sound of their voices rising woke me up and caused me to listen in confusion. I simply couldn’t figure out why she was upset. I had found something I enjoyed, and that was something that I had been missing for quite a while. I could hear the sounds of her feet stomping off down the hall, and only a split second later my father popped his head in to tell me that everything was okay, and that my mother just was concerned about the excessive amount of interest I was showing in something she considered to be trivial. However, the mechanisms of the things I found in that box were something I held to be anything but unimportant. It seemed as if I had pieces of the world at my fingertips, and I was only paces away from figuring out the puzzle.
Five years later and I still haven’t finished putting the pieces together. In fact, I’ve spent more time pulling them apart than I have deciding how they should fit. Some would call it stupid, others a waste of time, but I call precision. I could put them together a thousand different ways, but the edges might not line up right, or maybe a corner would be out of place. When I decide it’s finished, it will be finished to such a point of accuracy that no one will be able to speak against it. They may just look like miscellaneous parts and pieces, nuts and bolts without a specific purpose, but they all make up a bigger picture, something that’s just sitting out of my grasp, to the point where I have to go back and recheck it time and time again.
If it wasn’t the lack of physical strength, or “meat on my bones,” as my mother put it, I would assume that I would appear nice enough for my mother to quit making nagging remarks about it. She’s always slapping double portions of what little we have on my plate, and giving me a glare every time I play around with the bits and pieces on the end of my fork. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s that I simply can’t stomach it, but that answer never satisfies her. My dad tends to come to my side, and he shoots me a sympathetic look as my mother’s looking the other way. He then comes up with calming words to put my mother’s determination to rest, and he finishes off what’s left on my plate. I’m careful to be quiet as I pick up my now-finished plate and push my chair back in, setting the dish on the counter and rounding the short corner back to my confining room.
It’s there that my dark eyes stay fixed on inanimate objects, pulling them apart and putting them back together in different ways. Some of the things I haven’t figured out, and their pieces stay strewn across the cardboard boxes I’ve lined up in place of a desk. There’s the pen that I plan on figuring out now, and the simple machine parts from the factory where my father works that I haven’t quite figured out yet. A smile crosses my face at the sight of it all, as I know that the night, even though it will be void of sleep, will be full of something else—something I can’t quite put my finger on.
If you asked one of my nonexistent friends how they would describe me, it would most likely be some variation of the word determined, though it may be put in context closer to something of obsessive. But then again, I don’t have friends to ask, so that gives me the free rein of describing myself. I’m not obsessed, I’m simply stuck on the same track, the same notes playing over and over and over. I can never get past one certain point, in fact, I’m constantly going back and checking it over and over, just to make sure it’s been finished completely. Maybe that’s why the temporary fixes that plague our home have never suited me, because the fact is, one day I’m going to check the cardboard over the window and realize it’s fallen down, and then, how will I ever be sure that it’s still up? It’s a never-ending cycle that leaves me without making any progress.
So the question still remains, how have I made any progress, ever, if I’m still stuck on the same record? The answer is simple, I haven’t. I’m still fiddling with the same objects that I did five years ago, when I picked up the habit of pulling things apart and putting them back together. But I haven’t finished any of them, because I can never seem to get it just right, so in turn, I’ll pull the pieces apart and try again, but it doesn’t matter, because I can never get it exactly how I want. The only results I’ve gotten are the feelings of frustration that hang over my head, and the pieces that fall neglected on the floor.
However, it’s not only frustration that comes with the deal, it’s calm and happiness and peace all wrapped around the thread of a screw. People wonder how something can bring about such different feelings at about the same time, but really isn’t that how anything is? For example, if I was to go out and run a mile in the blistering heat, I could make the assumption that I would be out of breath, sweating, and just generally feeling utterly disgusting. However, someone would also tell you that that brings about a sense of rejuvenation, like you’ve accomplished something, and accomplishment tends to lead to a feeling that can be equaled with positivity. It’s then that you’ve encountered good and bad, and that’s the way I would describe what it’s like when I tinker with the nuts and bolts that lay in front of me.
It was a late night in spring that my father flung open the door, as he returned from work, his hands full of boxes of all different sizes, some looking brand new and others as if they had seen better days. He handed something to my mother (I can’t recall what, as I was too focused on the boxes he had set at his feet). He handed one of the smaller ones to me and simply told me to, “Go wild.” I took his command to heart and dragged the box behind me to my room, its contents too heavy for me to lift up for even the short distance. Unfolding its lid was like unlocking a buried treasure chest, and to me, the contents inside were just as good as coins of gold. My mother had walked an hour or so later, telling me that I needed to go to sleep, and that those “things” could be played with later. I had temporarily complied to her request and crawled under the covers, waiting until the hall light went out to tiptoe back and resume my explorations.
She came in the following morning to find me asleep, my head resting against the box. She just rolled her eyes and called my father in, most likely to show him what he had started, because no matter what happened, ever, it was either my fault, or my father’s fault. My mother firmly stands behind that fact that she’s faultless, and refuses to cross that line, no matter how apparent the evidence is. She pulled him back outside of my door and scolded him, and the sound of their voices rising woke me up and caused me to listen in confusion. I simply couldn’t figure out why she was upset. I had found something I enjoyed, and that was something that I had been missing for quite a while. I could hear the sounds of her feet stomping off down the hall, and only a split second later my father popped his head in to tell me that everything was okay, and that my mother just was concerned about the excessive amount of interest I was showing in something she considered to be trivial. However, the mechanisms of the things I found in that box were something I held to be anything but unimportant. It seemed as if I had pieces of the world at my fingertips, and I was only paces away from figuring out the puzzle.
Five years later and I still haven’t finished putting the pieces together. In fact, I’ve spent more time pulling them apart than I have deciding how they should fit. Some would call it stupid, others a waste of time, but I call precision. I could put them together a thousand different ways, but the edges might not line up right, or maybe a corner would be out of place. When I decide it’s finished, it will be finished to such a point of accuracy that no one will be able to speak against it. They may just look like miscellaneous parts and pieces, nuts and bolts without a specific purpose, but they all make up a bigger picture, something that’s just sitting out of my grasp, to the point where I have to go back and recheck it time and time again.
{o t h e r}
Sunny Hemmings
Age: 17
District 8
Gender: Female
Face Claim: Klaudia Pulik
Codeword: oDair
Words: 412 + 424 + 558 = 1,394
All of Me-- John Legend
Sunny Hemmings
Age: 17
District 8
Gender: Female
Face Claim: Klaudia Pulik
Codeword: oDair
Words: 412 + 424 + 558 = 1,394
All of Me-- John Legend
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