text: Jerilynn Bates My Life in a Composition Notebook Diaries are meant only for the eye of the writer To Ellen Hopkins for the novels that inspired me to try this.  
   
   
     
   
   
   Redbluff is such a 
   
   
   
   
  small town, full of  
  mediocre people all trying 
  to steal eachothers styles. 
  Sometimes I think the only people 
  who don't care about how they look 
  are my best friend and 
   I. 
   
  Though it's not as if 
  my best friend  can 
   
  care about what it looks like,  
  considering it's a composition  
  notebook. Nevertheless, it's a  
  great listener... and it 
  does whatever I 
   want. 
   
  I suppose, if anyone ever  
  paid attention to what I wrote, 
  what I wrote in, 
  they might find it sad, that my  
  only friend is a notebook. 
  Though, I doubt anyone  
  would ever find  
   out. 
   
   
   
   
   
   Mostly because 
   
   
   
   
  I'm a wallflower. I'm bland, 
  plain, destined to forever 
  be in the background of the painting. 
  Never in the spotlight,  
  but always there to witness. 
  I know, 
   stupid. 
   
  But in a town the size of a quarter, 
  you'd think everyone knew 
  everyone, and no secrets were kept. 
  My secrets, however, most always 
  revolve around feeling 
   small. 
   
  I suppose I only have my 
  parents to blame, 
  for meeting, for falling in 
  "love," marrying and moving to such  
  a claustraphobic 
   town. 
   
   
   
   
   
   I've always wondered what 
   
   
   
   
  it would be like to fit in, 
  live in a place where it was easy 
  to connect with the person next to you 
  like they were your own kin. I suppose 
  I'll never know where a place 
  like that 
   is. 
   
  Or if there even is a place like that. 
  Is it always so difficult to stand out?  
  Not blend into the wallpaper like some 
  decoration you didn't want to get but 
  somehow found yourself buying anyway? 
  I wonder if I have a place 
  somewhere out 
   there. 
   
  I'm always hearing about people 
  finding their 'place' in this world. 
  and it always happens to revolve around 
  the opposite sex and "love." 
  I've always found it difficult to 
  believe there's a such thing as 
   love. 
   
   
   
   
   
   I force that 
   
   
   
   
  from my mind though, as I try 
  to concentrate on my schoolwork. 
  Math is a subject I've never understood. 
  What kind of thing would want to  
  create such mindlessness? My mother, before 
  her alcoholism, once told me,  it's  
  not a what, so much as a 
   who. 
   
   
  Just as the Mr. Kendalls, 
  the math teacher asks us how to  
  solve the ratio he had written on the board, 
  a boy walks in. I hear the kids around me start  
  whispering.  He's hot. 
   
   
   Yes, he 
   
   
   
   
   
   is. 
   
   
  Tall, blond, built. 
  Yeah, I guess he would be the tippical 
  'hot', I thought as he strode up 
  to the teacher to tell Mr. Kendalls that he  
  was the new student. And then he turned and  
  and looked at... me? I looked over both shoulders 
  to see if he was looking past me, but no one was  
  sitting behind me. 
  He can't be looking at me, 
  though, could 
   he? 
   
   
   
   
   
   It's not like I was 
   
   
   
   
  bad looking, exactly. 
  But I cirtainly wasn't good looking.  
  Not like the other girls in this class, 
  Not like 
   he is. 
   
  I felt myself freeze, 
  my cells turn to ice as even 
  my most figity didget stopped moving, 
  and, as my face heated, 
  I realized I was completely 
   still. 
   
  But he wasn't still. He, it seemed, 
  was as free to move as the  
  nonexistant wind that fluttered his clothing 
  as he took the empty seat behind me, smirking. 
  And all through the rest of class, 
  I could feel his eyes burning holes 
  into the back of my head,  
   stairing. 
   
   
   
   
   
   After class I 
   
   
   
   
  cut across the quad and into the library. 
  Lunch was my safety,  
  a place to go and get away from 
  the noise of a boring school. 
  A place to finally be alone, just my 
  best friend and 
   I. 
   
  I walked strait past the tables and 
  into the rows and rows 
  of books, choosing a spot in the very back 
  between shelves and sat.  
  I guess this is where I belong. 
  Because this is where I  
   am. 
   
  Back here, away from crowds,  
  it was quiet. Here, in the section that 
  holds nothing but dictionaries, medical,  
  tree, animals, bee's, I was alone. 
  I was able to blend in to the  
  back ground where ever I went, 
  but here, I was nearly 
   nonexistant. 
   
   
   
   
   
   I opened the cover 
   
   
   
   
  of my composition notebook, 
  figuring I had enough time to write 
  a little down, for later 
  access into memories 
  I'd have otherwise forgotten. 
  I know it's 
   stupid, 
   
  But seeing as though I don't have 
  a friend thats able to 
  speak to remind me  
  of the memories I'd lost, 
  concidering that I'm  
  a wallflower, It's possibly, 
  maybe, just a little bit,  
  alright... that I have a diary. 
  Gods, I'm so  
   sad. 
   
  Not the teary, depressed sad 
  that most use the word as, 
  that my alchoholic mom  
  would assume is what I meant, 
  but the kind of sad that lable's  
  me exactly as what I am; a 
   loser. 
   
   
   
   
   
   I've never 
   
   
   
   
  concidered the fact that 
  I might have low self esteem, 
  but thinking about it now, 
  I guess it made sense.  
  With me, I guess,  
  of course it 
   would. 
   
  The story of my life, 
  though, right? Depression, 
  low self esteem, 
  a best friend who's  
  never shown any interest in 
  me except for what I shove  
  into it's card board mouth. 
  Why would anyone care about  
  someone like that? A nobody. Would 
   you care? 
   
  I don't think anybody would. An 
  ordinary girl like me, peddles 
  a bland shade of yellow,  
  that turns tannish when compared  
  to the sickly green wallpaper 
  background. Who would care 
   if I died? 
   
   
   
   
   
   I wasn't exactly keen 
   
   
   
   
  On the idea of dieing.  
  But I suppose it was something that 
  happened to everyone 
  eventually, right? 
  Nothing lasts forever, it can't, 
  not even 
   life. 
     
  As sad as the thought that 
  there would come a point in time 
  where you really, truely  did 
   
  become nonexistant, I couldn't find 
  it in myself to believe 
  that there was any hope for an 
  affterlife for me of anykind. 
  Thats just the way it 
   is 
   
  I mean, if I'm not noticed in life,  
  if I'm bland enough that only the  
  lockers and windows and walls would 
  want to keep my company,why would that  
  change just because I died?  
  I wouldn't have been surprised if  
  I didn't make death's cut either and  
  instead was forced to live forever... 
  no matter how  
   lame. 
   
   
   Text: Original story. Copyright laws apply here. All rights reserved. Publication Date: August 4th 2011 https://www.bookrix.com/-artanimelover