Duncan Bowers-Fox {D8/FIN}

d u n c a n b o w e r s - f o x

-journal entry #1, start time: 10:06 on the morning of December 17th

I have spent much time observing the world that surrounds me, but I have never stopped to look at myself. Often have I romanticized the tragedies that befall the world, or love the way the ground flies beneath my feet while I run, but never have I ever stopped to think about myself. There are pages and pages of lists and unfinished paragraphs that sit strewn about, but not one of them is about me. Not even one simple word focuses on the intricate nature that I’d like to believe floats about me, but maybe now that should change. I guess I’ll start with the simplest things that are only facts. My name is Duncan Bowers-Fox and I am currently seventeen years old. I have resided in District Eight my entire life, and anywhere else would be deemed as new and unfamiliar land. I have no desire to be anywhere else, as the smoke that floats from the top of the factories is soothing in a strange and appalling way. I am close to flying away from the suffocating wrath that is childhood, and soon I will escape the reality of authority, only to have my dreams and desires locked away by the monster that is reality.

{a p p e a r a n c e}
- tall
- blond hair
- lanky
- uncoordinated
- messy/disheveled

I do not believe that there is much that sets me apart from all the people that walk the same paths as me. I am not extraordinary in any aspect, neither personality or appearance. Actually, maybe I would be more appealing if I was not in such a permanent state of being disheveled. My hair is blond, like the dried grass that fills the outer fields at this time of year, and like the grass, it flows with the way of the wind. Where the wind blows, it will follow, and so will I. The light breeze that flows through my hair floats around my neck as well, sending a chill down my spine. That is a perk of being tall, I suppose. The wind cannot miss or fly above you, and you are always taken account of. It is not helpful when you want to be hidden, however, because the blond wisps of hair peek out above the crowd, picking me out specifically in the moments I would like to stay unnoticed, which is almost always.

There are times that I think I am falling down more than I am standing up. I think that I am ridiculously unproportioned, which hopefully is the only reason I seem to trip over myself all the time. It hasn’t been a productive day if I have not fallen down at least three times. My lankiness also accounts for the incoordination that seems to slow me down in the everyday tasks that I strive to complete. In turn I try to be extra careful in almost everything I do, but sometimes, it’s futile. I will have to clean up the spilled milk and tumbled books that litter the floor.

There are others things that define me of course, but I don’t tend to think of them much. Because I am tall, my feet are big, filling my shoes completely, and in turn, the struggle to find shoes big enough to give my feet room is an ongoing battle. Even when I do find a pair that fit, they get worn down quickly, as I am out and about almost all the time. I am almost never home unless I am sitting up in my room locked away with dirty pieces of paper that I tend to use to write down my adventures. My clothes are pretty worn too, but I at least try to keep them in nicer shape than my shoes. The key word there is try, as I don’t think that they are looked upon as tidy. However, they’re comfortable, and that’s all I really care for at this point.

{p e r s o n a l i t y}
- observant
- forgetful of secondary tasks
- accusing
- quiet
- slightly arrogant

I would like to float through life unnoticed, no one paying attention to both the good and bad things that I have done and will do in the future. My observations will most likely die with me, scattering to the wind like birds. Although I do tend to keep them to myself and my journals, there are times I slip and tell them to the people around me. I won’t tell these to just anyone, only the ones I trust enough to confide in. There are times I get mad, and then I will use my thoughts strictly as a show of arrogance and brilliance, talking so fast that you have to be thinking on your feet to keep up with me. Almost immediately I begin to feel regret for my boastful thinking, and I realize I’m really not gaining anyone’s favor by doing so. The feeling comes and goes so quickly, sometimes I don’t even realize what I’ve done, or who I’ve hurt. That’s the worst part, to have someone you care about despise you for reasons unknown. I then begin to fall into this frantic state of rambling apologies, going back as far as my mind can. I’ll apologize for things I did years ago, as now, after being alone for so long, I cling to the few friends I have.

When I begin to notice things, from the whistling wind to the number of clouds in the sky, I tend to forget about the simple tasks others might deem “important.” Thoughts flow so quickly through my brain and out through my pen, that the things that should be taken care of slip away. I try to remember things, but only the ones that are important to me stick. My parents get angry about it quite often, snapping at me about responsibilities and things of the sort. It’s not my fault that I’ve got better things to do than taking out the trash and sweeping the floor. I tend to ignore them, and I’m sure when I am old enough, the first thing they’ll do is kick me out. I won’t mind, not that much at least. In fact, I would be content to just wander around the District, sleeping where sleep could be found and rising at the slightest glimpse of the sun. In my opinion, that would be lovely.

I don’t consider myself good, but I also don’t consider myself bad. I prefer the term mutual if we’re getting specific. I guess if I absolutely had to pick a side, it would be good, as really I am a pretty easy-going person, but sometimes, I tend to be accusing. Even though it’s easy for me to pick up on slight details, personal motives and vendettas are hard for me to read. It’s like a foggy lens on a camera, you can see the big picture, but the little details that give the picture its meaning are blurry. Very rarely am I able to sharpen the picture to a point where I can tell what is specifically going on, and when it does happen, I’m placing my bets on the table, regardless of the reward. Sometimes, however, I think I’ve got the picture, but then there tends to be a smudge or a crack that I overlooked, and my accusations are incorrect. That ends up backfiring into my face, leaving behind a streak of embarrassment that drives me further and further into the never-ending lust of perfection.

{h i s t o r y}
- alone
- two siblings
- running away for the day
- ready to grow up
- terrified of the past

If there is one word to be used in describing my childhood, it is alone. In fact, I am still alone, just not in the way I was years ago. I wouldn’t call it independence or loneliness, just simply, alone. It is not something I want or something I despise, it’s just something I have gotten used to over the years of playing by myself. I have two siblings, both older brothers, who have always held favor with my parents. But that’s because they seem to be almost like robots, falling into line with whatever my parents say or whatever they’re told. I almost wish I could be like that, no struggle of individuality to be found within their hearts. Almost. We’ve never been close, in fact, I’ve grown up far away from them in my mindset. I’ve never considered them family, and I never will. They don’t care about me, and I do not care about them. It’s the same way with my parents, and all my life I have struggled to cut away from their grip on my thoughts. They’ve always wanted me to be monotonous and straightforward, but that is against every single thing I have ever taught myself.

For that reason and many others, I tend to stay away from what they would call home. I have a few other choice words for it, but I’ll save that for another time. Because of my dislike of home and the moods it brought about, I would run away from the house just as the sun began to light up the morning sky, and I wouldn’t come home until it had left. That was how I met the people I stay around with now, by wandering from deserted building to deserted building. The first few times I did it of course, my parents were worried, but after a few weeks they didn’t mind-- well not that much anyway. I was glad, because for once, I had found a few people to actually be comfortable around. We were all different, and rightly so, because if we were similar nothing would be fun, now would it? For some reason our differences meshed together into a net woven of broken hearts and slowly healing friendships.

That’s really the only thing I try to remember about my past, as it does, even if it’s only for a moment, make me happy. It reminds me that no matter how many people dislike you, there are always going to be a few who understand how you think and appreciate you for what you have to give. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with leaving them, but that is a problem to deal with another day. I guess, in a way, I am ready to grow up and make my own decisions, because then there will be no one to tell me what I can and can’t do. That’s what every kid wants isn’t it? To be free of the “no you can’t do that” and the “maybe when you’re older” phrases that too often left my parents’ mouths. I can’t say my childhood has been horrible, as I’m sure others have had it worse, but I can’t say it’s been good either. It, like many others aspects of my life, has been mutual.