#anniengo

[papiertrees]

Flower

I wonder if flowers know how beautiful they are. I wonder if they know are loved. At first glance, it seems that flowers are just born into the world to be pretty, and then die. But flowers are so much more. Flowers can be love, laughing and twirling around on Valentine’s Day. Flowers can be happiness, walking down the aisle on a wedding day. Flowers can be hope, bringing life and color to a dull, gray hospital room. Flowers can be grief, solemnly lying on a quiet grave. Flowers can be the golden sun kissed glow of a summer afternoon. 

We are all flowers. We weren’t born into this world to just stand there and be pretty. We crave much more. Some people want fame. Some people want success. Some want fulfillment. Some want love, happiness. Some people want to leave their mark on the world. Others want to live quietly and die with a whisper. 

We are flowers. We are ever-changing, influenced by the people that wander around in our lives. We are flowers, leaving a small piece of ourselves in the lives of everyone we encounter. We are flowers: beautiful, meaningful. Maybe one day we’ll be loved, laughing and twirling around on Valentine’s Day. Maybe one day we’ll be happy, walking down the aisle with tear stained cheeks, Maybe one day we’ll bring the cries of a new life out in a warm, comfortable hospital room. And definitely one day we’ll be grieved, sleeping peacefully inside the earth in which we were born from. 

~Annie

[papiertrees]

Permanent Ink

My life is a story, written in permanent ink. Every step I take, every action, every thought is inscribed onto the page. Sometimes I write tentatively, sometimes recklessly, sometimes unwillingly. But no matter how slowly, how cautiously I write, I will inevitably make mistakes. Maybe I’ll misspell a word or two. Maybe my “o” will be lopsided, or maybe I won’t like the way my “e” looks. Maybe I’ll run out of room in the middle of a word and will have to continue it on the next line. Maybe I’ll be listening to a song and will subconsciously start writing down the lyrics instead of what I was intending to write. Maybe I’ll drop the pen and cause a thick, jagged scar to tear across the page. Then I’ll pick up an eraser and frantically drag it back and forth across the mistake. But soon I’ll realize that I was writing in permanent ink. If I keep erasing, I’d only rip the page. If I try to scribble the mistake out, to disguise it, to make it unreadable, I’d only make a bigger mess. If I scrutinize and agonize over the mistake, I’d only waste my time. It was written in permanent ink. It can’t be undone. It will always remain. I can only cross it out and rewrite it or ignore it and keep writing. Maybe I’ll make the same mistake again, maybe I won’t. But I can’t let a tiny mistake, or even a large mistake, stop me from enjoying the story that I had worked so hard to create. 

~Annie

[papiertrees]

Writing

I used to like writing. It was a way to escape the harsh reality when I was down. It was a way for me to get my creativity out, even if it wasn’t completely original, even if others had written it before. Grammar mistakes didn’t matter because no one would see it. i could ignore capitalization punctuation and speling and i could write as many run on sentences as i wanted without blaring red ink screaming “RUN ON SENTENCE” at me. And I was allowed to start sentences with “and”. Or even write sentence fragments. I could even laugh to myself haha or draw little (: faces or use LOL and omg. It was like having a conversation with myself outside of my head. I used to write for fun. I used to write for me.

That was before I was told I had to write for an “audience”. Now I’m tied down by all these rules. I have to capitalize the word “I” whether it be at the beginning of a sentence or in the middle of the sentence and I don’t even know why. I can’t start sentences with “and” or “but” or “because” because they would be considered sentence fragments. I have to use commas, or else they would be run on. I have to make my writing interesting and original and beautiful, but I’m not allowed to compare blue eyes to the ocean because that would be cliche. One may not even use “I” to refer to oneself because it’s too informal and “unacademic”. My writing has to demonstrate a higher level of thinking and a deep analysis of why it matters or it’s irrelevant. And I have to do all this in order to make my writing appealing to an audience. 

And now I don’t like writing anymore because it’s never good enough. Because it’s never fluid enough or I’m not smart enough. Because it’s hard for me to articulates my thoughts clearly and eloquently at the same time. Because it’s suffocating. 

~Annie 

[papiertrees]

Night and Day

When I was little, I was deathly afraid of the dark and nighttime, as any other little kid might be. 

Ten years later, and I’m still afraid of the dark, but I’ve actually grown fond of the night. It just seems so much peaceful and relaxing. I love looking at the silver moon and the twinkling stars that sometimes turn out to be airplanes in the night sky. I love that none of my family members are screeching obnoxiously; no one is awake to bother me. There’s no glaring sun shoving its way between the blinds. There are no cars rudely honking as they speed by. I find it easier to concentrate at night, to work on my homework more productively and efficiently because there are no distractions that are usually present during the daytime. That, or I just tend to work more quickly because I want to go to sleep hahahahaha. I like the fact that I’m free to read sad books and cry or watch funny movies and try to contain my laughter without judgmental glances from my sister. And I love frolicking the internet to my heart’s content and falling asleep without a care in the world. 

I love the night but I also love the early mornings. I love waking up to a blue tinted world where the moon has gone down but the sun has yet to rise. I love tiptoeing throughout the house and eating breakfast in peace before anyone else is awake. And I love being able to have all the experiences of the late night in the early morning, without any fears of the dark lurking in the corner.

~Annie 

[papiertrees]

Life Lessons from Fahrenheit 451

“And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did.”                                                            - Granger, Fahrenheit 451

When I read Ray Bradbury’s novel Fahrenheit 451 during my freshman year of high school, a lot of quotes and ideas portrayed in the novel really stood out to me. This is one of my favorites, spoken by a character named Granger in regards to his grandfather.

It made me realize that when you lose people in your life, you’re really mourning for your own loss rather than their loss. You cry because you’ll never see them again. You ache because you’ll never get to enjoy their company again. You don’t even think about how they’ll never get to enjoy the things they love ever again. You don’t cry because they’ll never laugh or cry or run or walk or eat or breathe again. You don’t cry because they no longer have a life to live. You don’t cry for their loss.

Even others who want to express their sympathy say, “Sorry for your loss” placing the importance on you and the fact that you lost someone. Though this is not necessarily a bad thing; it’s only natural and just as reasonable as human reason is.

I’ve realized that there are two (maybe even more) different types of mourning. Of course, when you lose someone you love, you can’t help but be hurt. But when you hear about other people’s deaths on the news or about some tragic accident involving people whom you’ve never met nor had the slightest idea of their existence, you’re not too drastically affected. However, you may think things along the lines of what a shame or they had their whole lives ahead of them or how awful with genuine feeling and not just for the sake of expressing worthless sympathy.

But what I’ve really learned from this quote is to live my life to the fullest and have no regrets, so that when the day comes that I will cross the rainbow bridge, maybe―just maybe―people won’t be crying for me, but for the things I did, just like Granger’s grandfather.

~Annie

And since that may have been kind of depressing, here's a Fahrenheit themed pickup line:

Are you an illegal book? Because you're on fireeee