ashton kline {d11} fin

There's just something about music. The melodies that string us all along are present in every aspect of life whether we like it or not; a mother singing in the shower that echoes through an empty house like it is a silent stadium or the gentle cracking of your fingers in the morning after they have tightened in the night. We are each the conductors of our own symphony: we decide how the song is sung, and there's a nice feeling of power that comes with that. And I've always thought of music as a medium to spread the words I've been dying to say but never have; lyrics become the loudest when they mean the most.

I write. I'm a writer. Whenever I tell that to people, they seem surprised. If you aren't working the fields then you are expected to provide for your family in some other way—I'm an animal tamer for the farmers, but I provide unconventionally, too. My family like what I write, perhaps because it offers a sense of escapism from the repetitive nature of life in Eleven, or maybe it's just appreciation out of sympathy because I'm a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece, a sister. But I like to think they look beyond the signature slim face and sunken eyes, I like to think they think words have just as much weight as any other weapon.

They drain from pale lips, fresh as a daisy. Now untouched but not unloved—there are remnants of kisses in the night or between the sheets. There was something frightening about giving up everything and showing the bare bones of what makes someone what they are to someone else. My first boyfriend was good until a point; the love felt electric, like it could tear the roof off a hundred buildings but nothing good lasts forever. Honesty was always in jeopardy with him and it was proved to never be a priority with him when he cheated. That moment hurts, but thinking about it acts as a new stitch in the wound. Sometimes I think that I'll never be able to love again. It isn't because my heart has been broken beyond repair, rather I don't want to start another fire and fall too far in that I can't escape.

Vulnerability. I don't want to become too vulnerable. I guess that showing it has never been my strong point, and whilst I know that it is for the worst because sooner rather than later, emotions will get the better of me and there will be some sort of explosion of thoughts and feelings... I like to think I'll control the chaos and let the emotions fall through my hand, from pen to paper. Moments like that, the ones of intense weakness can easily be turned into strength given the right frame of mind.

Maybe it's hard to share things because I'm a worrier. Growing up wasn't easy for anyone, but it's forced me to close my wings and become a caterpillar. They say that you flourish into your best self when you become an adult, yet I'm still trying to find the confidence to let that person out. I only really feel comfortable talking to my family and a handful of friends. Attention becomes anxiety, and I try not to let it shift to paranoia but they come hand in hand, often. It strikes me down, like killer to a root—I cripple myself from the inside out and fixate on the idea of being wrong. I find security in climbing trees and staring out to the sky, whispering a silent prayer that somewhere, someone out there sings the same tune as me.

It's a long shot. I know it's a long shot because I don't even know what the world is like beyond Eleven, but I want to think they have it better.

When I ask my parents about the world, they shrug their shoulders. I think society has failed itself in some way; histories are dwindling because we are living in fear of what could be. There is reflection on what has been through the Hunger Games, but murder is hardly the most healthy way to look back on the past. Life is what you make it, sure, and I try to always be the optimist and find hope in every nook and cranny because opportunity is everywhere, but the life we know is too limited. Vicious cycles that bind and only bend never break—I shouldn't care, but it's sad. It's sad to think people don't try to change all they have ever known.

I'm a testament to that. My mother would tell me how my grandmother was reaped for the Hunger Games at my age. How she had just brought a life into the world only to pay for it with her own; she killed and she died, but I'm certain she died long before she stopped breathing. Every time I'm reminded of how the Hunger Games hits so close to home, I'm reminded how, in this world, loss is a choice made for you.

We light the match, other people do the rest. They make music nobody wants to hear, but they play it anyway.