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| [ u p d a t e s ] [ p i c t u r e o f t h e m o m e n t ] [ f a n f i c t i o n ] [ a w a r d s ] [ l i n k s ] [ d i s c l a i m e r ] [ a b o u t t h e s i t e ] [ a b o u t u s ] [ c o n t a c t u s ] |
| emerges, morphing from an ugly duckling to a magnificent swan, gracefully gliding on an imaginary plane of water. The spotlight impresses me with its tricks, sweeping across the floor like a forceful gale of wind, but it also tiptoes like a tiny ballerina, cautious yet experienced. The celestial and somehow god-like light entrances me; it never fails to amaze me. Unexpectedly, the spotlight ceases its game of frolicking. It stops dead in its tracks. I sense its alarm as if the spotlight were a human being. The sound of footsteps demolishes what courage I had. I hear my bones disintegrate to a cowardly pile of dust. The footsteps translate into a resulting fear in my brain. But my body cannot seem to grasp my brain's concept of retreat; I am paralyzed. My mind displays the term "stranger," but my heart does not correspond. Yet the word "friend" does not serve as a suitable description, either. So whom do the footsteps belong to? Stranger or friend? I soon realize that neither expression complies. For it is you, neither stranger nor friend, who enters my life. You, whom I never knew. As I watch you nonchalantly stroll across the barren floor, immediately, you are captivated by the spotlight, which had also once held my gaze. You stare ponderously into the blinding light, as if you were trying to discern the image of heaven. Your attention is undivided; you bow before the radiant beam of light. However, my focus is not on the spotlight. Instead, you are caught in the snare of my concentration. You represent the trait of juvenility. Every aspect about you causes me to become invidious; I try to eschew you as much as possible. I sense nothing but hatred and disgust as I perceive your image. Although your age exceeds mine, I am certain that my maturity level exceeds yours. Egotistical. Ludicrous. Arrogant. Mindless. Stuck up. Literally repulsive. I'm sure even the simplest of thesauruses could scrounge up words and phrases to relate to your terminal condition of plain stupidity. I am judging, yes. That I can suffice to. But I do not place my opinions only on the basis of your appearance. The quote, "Actions speak louder than words," becomes very true as I continue to study you. You make a complete fool of yourself - to the point where I can't refrain from bursting out with laughter any longer. I finally come to the conclusion that maybe you are good for something. Good for nothing but a laugh in my eyes. You twist your head, as if you can hear me laughing at you. But I have knowledge. Knowledge of the fact that you only have a brain to barely survive, to barely function. Intelligence is amiss as I examine your thoughts, your words, your actions. As if to scoff me off, you simply toss your famous million-dollar smile, which should be considered a felony. So far, nothing has done you justice in making me a fan. With a ridiculing sigh, I acknowledge the pathetic fact that you indeed have fans - fans that seem too dense to realize how immature and revolting you are. You have arrogated fame that you have not truly earned. But I know your plan. It is the only sensible evidence I can conjure up to substantiate the fact that you brainwash girls into worshiping you as a god. I know your secret weapon. It is your complexion. Vomit erupts from my mouth; I am unable to deny the combination of your blond hair and blue eyes clashing boisterously together, causing my stomach to churn worse than a maelstrom. Waves of pure nausea belabor with full force at my head. I would rather die than endure this torture of being compelled to look at you any longer. Better yet, killing you appears to be my destiny. And still, there is the devious strategy of throwing you into the insane asylum with all of your psychotic fans. I no longer can bear to think of the slightest thought of you, even a trace of you. Yes, I am harsh, but you more than deserve this treatment. Death seems a gracious penalty for your crime of existing. And yet, it is you - the only one worthy enough to stand in the spotlight. You proceed to your purpose of being here, which I have yet to find out. Obviously, it is not to converse with me. I don't give a crap for you. But apparently the spotlight does. You sit down on a stool, isolated, but the beam of light prevents the darkness from devouring you whole. The spotlight is your shield, as if to protect you from my pejorative remarks. In the light, you appear as a king on his throne, although from my point of view, you are lower than a banished peasant is. But of course, you are nave. You do not realize that your reason for being here has a much deeper meaning. Much deeper than I am ready to comprehend. You, according to your priorities, are here for one thing and one thing only. Music. |
| "the transformation" part one: before property of: laura wilde |