delphine - district 1. [done!]

{a true identity}. ~ Delphine Hanaveive
{years of youth}. ~ 17 Years
{glitter and gowns}. ~ Female
{welcome to paradise}. ~ District 1

Misty morning clouds roll past the faded window, left slightly ajar, curtains hanging limply from either side of the sill. A faint breeze rustles the drapery slightly, allowing the fresh air to become entangled in the shimmering threads of the curtain, being captured as a dream catcher might capture dreams during the night. The gauzy fabric is translucent, the world beyond the glass window blurry and left a mystery, hidden from sight even though the presence of the outside world that lies far below the windowsill still lingers in the tiny room. Like my dark brown eyes, the world outside is a maze of mist, a well of confusion, clouded with secrets and doubt. White, porcelain hands trail absentmindedly across the sill of the window, flakes of dried paint coming off at the slightest touch. The vintage room in which I stand is not mine, but merely a spare room discarded many years ago, deemed ‘too unproper’ for a family of such high status to ever be found in. The only reason the ancient room had not already been knocked down was because of this window. If this setting wasn’t so perfect, I would not have even bothered to hold onto something so worn and tattered.

The curtains are drawn back suddenly, with a swift movement of my nimble hand, and warm light floods through the gap where the curtains had previously lain. No longer is the world past the window clouded or fuzzy, but it is a glittering wonderland that stretches for miles upon miles, a sight you could only dream of. I blink several times as my eyes adjust to the light, and can feel the warm glow from the sun already making my make-up embellished face glitter glamorously. The heavy layers of beauty products make my face feel smooth, and as I look out the window, I feel my breath catch. The beauty takes your breath away, the wind’s strength now stronger than before, billowing around you in wisps. The wind rushes into the room, and my flowing blonde hair whips around my face, making it sting, but the pain is not unwelcome. It’s a reminder that I am strong, and fierce, yet also a coward, for as I quickly drop the drapery to block the violent wind gusts, I can see the perfect hands, no scars or scratches there. Only glowing skin. No ugly marks to show for the training and hardships I faced each day.

Without warning, the mind of the girl becomes flustered and anxious, and the long limbs leap for the door, tumbling down flights of stairs, tripping over and flailing, for the delicate limbs are not built for physical labour, but for poise and perfection, two words that are foreign in the girl’s mind in that single moment. The silky fabric of the long gown trails as she flies down the stairs as if the girl is not really walking at all, the glittering jewels adorning her ears, neck, wrists and head sending glowing shapes dancing around the walls of the staircase. The hunt continues, until the door that holds the desired getaway looms in front of her, and with outstretched hands, the door is torn open with such force that the fragile girl feels herself almost topple into the room, strands of hair sticking to the panic-stricken face. Yet there is a sense of calm in her mind, alongside the throbbing urge to obey what she was being commanded to do. However, it is clear as day to see that the girl was anything but calm. The thoughts of negativity threatened to choke her, calling to her softly, reminding the girl that she wasn't good enough. That she could never be good enough. With no scars to prove, surely that was the truth?

I waltz into the middle of the room in a trance, the gown I am wearing continuing to swirl with the movement of my light footfalls, intricate layers of jewellery glinting magically in the dim light provided by the various lamps set around the room. The four-poster bed sits untouched, and it is all I can do to stop myself from collapsing before I even reach the bed. I look down to my bony fingers, follow them up my child-like hands, along my arms, the fragile bones that lie beneath the pale surface only a careless bump away from being broken. I am trembling. I can see the long lashes protruding from the tops of my eyelids, can feel the muscles around my mouth tighten and my nose begin to twitch as the water fills up in my eyes, but I would not cry. I hold my head in my hands, the long, perfectly filed nails digging into the scalp until the terrors fade. A battle waged inside of my mind for an instant, throwing away all traces of rationality

But just like that, the urge had gone, and once again I found myself returning to my composed self, a girl of beauty and charisma, a girl who was meant to be admired. I walk softly to my wardrobe, running my fingers along the beautiful garments that lay there, my obsession with clothes obvious to anyone as soon as they saw my room, or saw the mystified look in my eyes as I walked down the busy streets shopping with mother. Although I stood there in my own personal bubble of peace, tranquility, admiration, I knew that these almond-shaped eyes would forever remain glazed over, shrouded in secrets that were never meant to leave the soul.

{hidden secrets}.

It's a dreamer's disease. When you can sit and daydream about such silly material desires for hours on end, knowing they will never even come true. You can dream and wish for something to happen and that is enough to make you feel elated and happy, even if it's just a faraway dream. But it's also having sudden, frantic urges to fulfill nothing in particular. Meaningless things. Nobody understands, for I am a horrid, spoilt child who only cares for pretty things and glamorous clothing and training to become the best I can be in the eyes of the outsiders. I am trapped, yet not really caged, for the world I’ve created is my own and being in it is the only place I really feel at home.

A child of seventeen, with the world at your feet, anything you could ever possibly dream of, sitting right in the middle of your palm. Say the word, and it’s all yours. Yet no amount of wishing or asking or begging or pleading would ever be able to give you what you truly wanted, deep down.

All you ever wanted was to be free of it all.

Each day when you leave the safety of your magical home in District 1, you see the pain and scum of those who are less fortunate than you. Your eyes take it in, and somewhere in your soul you feel pain, and sorrow, and sympathy for them. And yet on the surface you are oblivious to the stormy misery reflected in their dead eyes as they look at you with such an intense gaze you have to break free.

Of all the money in the world, it can’t buy wings. To dream was simply not enough. The mind holds one back from floating away, growing wings and flying to a better place. To think that one day, you could be light enough to float away from it all is the most marvellous daydream. The birds, they don’t notice just how lucky they are, and most people, they don’t either. And yet, you could have everything and still come back asking for more, and that is selfish and wrong and a sin. But flying is what I desire most, and nothing could ever make up for that wish that will never be fulfilled. The dainty butterfly could never hurt anyone, and yet she flutters from place to place, quiet as a mouse, learning secrets that could tear people apart. She wishes she could leave – not only leave in an attempt to break free of the harsh chains that keep her grounded, but also leave behind the life that she does not belong to, and escape to her new-found fantasy world.

However, she simply can’t.

But what could she offer? What did the girl staring out of her window have to offer to the world, apart from a lifetime of tumbling through hoops that her parents had set out for her? The girl so caught up in her own fantasy-filled mind that it is often too difficult for her to distinguish what is real and what is not, where passing time is one of the only things she knows how to do correctly. What did she offer?

Even she cannot say. Even she can accept that all she really cares about, is herself.

{remember when}.

Child is 3 years old. The day outside turned so drastically from miserable and rainy to beautiful and sunny the moment she stepped outside. It is thought that her hair shines so brightly because of how magically the sun’s rays are caught in her long locks. The change is much to her disappointment, for the girl longed for the puddles of water that she could splash about in whilst wearing her new gumboots (ignoring the fact that, of course, she was dressed in one of her finest petticoats). Child has barely plonked herself on the already-drying grass to begin sobbing, before her parents come outside, a small bundle held in their hands. Curious, the young girl flew over to her parents where, held in their hands, was a small bundle of fur. Child’s eyes lit up at the white ball in front of her, a look on her face asking her parents, ‘Mine?’ A small nod, and Child was off with her first wonderful friend.

‘The dreams you create are all yours. Nobody needs to see them, nobody needs to learn of them.’ The paper is etched with these words, spilling from my mind, a waterfall of truths and not-so-secret secrets that flow freely, explaining my deepest wishes in such a small amount of words. Flying to paradise. Escaping. Learning to swim. Proving everybody wrong including myself?. Discovering something new. Having short hair. Sewing. Travelling to a better place. Flaws.

So long as you keep those dreams, you will be happy. Don’t forget anything.’

Child is 6 years old. As she grows older, her sense of wonder grows with her, the world around her springing to life as she collects dreams as one would capture butterflies in a jar. An atrociously windy day at the park with her parents and her faithful companion, Picasso, was all it had taken to completely change her outlook on life. It started with the bird. A bird flew by, beating it’s little wings as it tried to compete with the billowing winds that forced him backwards. Child was enchanted. Her first encounter with such a magical creature and already she was longing to be there, too, with the bird in the breeze. The rest of her day was spent following birds around – all kinds of birds! – and Child’s imagination roamed free as she dreamt of flying with them. Little was it known that Picasso, the poor, unfortunate cat, was hurt. The cat saw Child’s excitement, and set off without a mew. She left. From that day on, nobody would know what had happened to Child’s little friend, yet the hurt of being second best cut the kitten deeper than a blade.

To this day, Child refuses to believe her very first friend is gone. You can hear her dreams whisper to the white bundle of fur, calling, ‘Come back, come back.’

When I look at my mother, I see me. And that was all I'd really wanted - to be someone who mother would be proud of. Someone that people would pass on the streets and wonder "Who is she?" and want to know all about me.

I idolised my mum, and I knew that she could see it in my eyes. I'd never been very close to father, but that just made me even more determined to build a maintaining relationship with mother. Even though I'm not close to dad, the time spent with mother could make up for that lost time with father. Even though I tried so desperately not to let it go to my head, the authority mother held couldn't help but rub off on me, as if I was always going to be one step ahead of everybody else. That was just how it should be.

Does that make me a bad person for never trying harder with father, though?

Child is 12 years old. The atmosphere surrounding the curious little girl is buzzing with expectation and anticipation. Today was the day she would see the family business for the first time in her life. It had always been a dream, a glowing spark that lit up the fuzzy part of her mind where the family business sat. She knew it was there, but she had never been enlightened enough to know about such dealings. She'd seen the lovely pieces of jewellery placed carefully around the family home, and as her father ushered her through the doors of the factory, she let out a gasp of disbelief, as if she had been holding her breath all along, the sudden release leaving her light-headed. Her father's quiet chatter barely reached her ears as the pair made their way around the workshop, the girl's eyes never straying from the gorgeous gems. Child left, her desire for vanities growing all the more after that day. However, child was oblivious to her father's dismal attempts at interesting at least one child in the family business, and as they made their way back home on that cool Summer day, her father let out a small sigh of sadness, only to be heard by his own ears.

I’d always been a let-down, a mess, a daydreamer and the worst part was knowing I couldn’t change that. Maybe that’s what drives me to win the Games – so I can prove something, finally. I guess what keeps me going, is the hope that one day, I can break free of these trivial desires that conjure up at a moment’s notice. What keeps me going is the hope that one day, I can do something worthwhile in my life, for nothing here is worthwhile, to me. There is nothing.

One day, I’ll take my crown, and sit upon my throne. A crown of jewels, fit for a princess. And I’ll stare at the people as they walk by in their unfulfilling lives, and think to myself, ‘That was me.

And I’ll dream. I’ll never stop.

Child is 17 years old. As she gazes out of the rusty window in the forgotten spare room, as her jewels twinkle sadly, as the chiffon on her gown rests loosely over her body, her eyes are painted with the longing for more, much more than she could ever be.

{intricacies).

{face claim}. ~ Joanna Sobesto
{colour scheme}. ~ Sunlit 2
{tl;dr}. ~ Letting go of things is scary.

You can commit to so many visualisations of where you will be, should be, want to be.

But gravity is pulling, and to cut is a cowardice.

(I didn't want to cry, love.)

(Highlight, enter.)

Rotten, it hurts at the core because that is where they told me to harvest my dreams. Only now, as I unravel, do I find what was never good enough for an invisible mist to do anything more than lie.

And then again, maybe I knew all along.

(Trying. Trials of triads. I don't do triplets, but three splintered shards threaten to pierce me to quarts.)