Weerwolven van Wakkerdam

Ik ben begonnen met het schrijven van een fictief verhaal, in een stijl die nogal anders is dan veel van de boeken op de markt tegenwoordig. Het verhaal gaat over een meisje, en is geschreven in een stijl die het doet overkomen alsof ze aan zichzelf schrijft. Een soort van dagboek, waarin ze niet alleen reflecteert op haar eigen daden, maar ook advies en ideeën aan zichzelf geeft. Kritisch kijkt ze naar haar eigen leven en wijst zichzelf erop precies wat er mis mee is.

Ik hoop hier dan mee te bereiken dat je echt wordt meegetrokken in haar denkwereld, in de manier waarop zij dingen beleeft. Dat je inziet waarom ze de keuzes maakt die ze heeft gemaakt, en waarom ze de dingen doet die ze doet. Een manier om je zo in haar in te leven, dat ze een deel van jezelf wordt zeg maar.

Niet dat dat echt lukt tot nu toe, en heel erg schiet het niet op met het verhaal. Toch had ik lekker zin om commentaar te vragen, dus ga ik hier een eerste stukje posten. Alle commentaar is welkom!
(dan ga ik er dus vanuit dat mensen dit uberhaupt lezen, zelfs al is het in engels)

I always made sure my walls were up. Carefully I hid the feelings I detested inside those walls I built with lies. A fortress made of untruthful stories, of fake happiness. It's a pretty good deal, not only do you not get bothered by your own problems, others don't bother you with theirs either. I made my walls strong enough. And no one found them worthy of even attempting to break down.
The scratches on the walls were invisible to others. They've drawn beautiful patterns on the insides, the story of how those feelings didn't want to be kept inside. I never let them out. The only feelings  I showed were controlled, safe. As fake as probably pretty much everything else in this life.

The truth is however quite simple. I hid myself so long behind my lies that they became my truth. They became who I was, who I am. Too far in to change the stories, too far in to change at all.
No new scratches are made on my walls anymore, the feelings I wanted hidden have just died down. Not that I mind, I think. Yet, now that my walls are falling down, willingly kicked in by my own wishes, I feel empty. Mostly because that is what I am. I hadn't realized that the walls I thought I built to keep everyone out, were meant to keep myself in. And they did their job.

Now I don't feel anymore. I can still keep up the lies I made to protect myself, that is the easiest thing for me to do. Even though there is no more me to protect. Can you lose the very things that make you you? I suppose most people would do what I do. Keep going as if nothing ever changed. Which in their eyes is of course true. How would they know about anything behind those carefully built walls. That is exactly why they are there, right. Hide away, die in silence. I don't think anyone will notice, especially since I myself didn't. My mirror did not show me that I lost myself. That I changed overnight from someone with the perfect lies, into someone that is only lies.

I still remember the pain I used to feel. The pain that makes you want to curl up, grabbing your blankets, and just drift away into nothingness. I remember the months that went by in a blur of images and colors, meaningless actions that I can't seem to remember. Can't really remember when that faded, or more importantly, why it faded. I just know that it did and that I managed to get back up and pretend it never happened. The most important thing I remember however is the promises I made myself. It was then that I started the walls, even though the start to them had always been there. A promise to never do this to myself again.

Then the walls were made, built to protect myself, and others from me. Pretty walls, strong walls, serving their purpose well. Plans were made, designed to hide myself, from myself and others. They served their purpose well. I comforted myself in this world I built, revolving completely about every lie I had ever used to hide the truth. Maybe I got too comfortable, or maybe the world got too perfect. Maybe truth finally caught up to me, or my longing to reality. Who can tell.

All I know is that now I stand between the walls of my fortress, desperately looking for the person I hid away inside such a long time ago. The gates are wide open, leading to a world of truth, and pain. And every single part of me realizes that I'm not ready to leave, that I can't face that pain I will inevitably run into. Each little piece of me is trying to force those doors closed, wishing to return to the safety of the lie. But the real me, the hidden me, is gone. Was I ever there? Maybe I manufactured the lies around me so carefully, that I believed in them myself. Lost in my own web of lies. Maybe I only ever told myself that there was more to this life, to me, than I was willing to show. But now, now that I thought I was finally ready to let go of all the lies, maybe the truth will hurt me even more. Maybe there was never anything behind the lies.

goed geschreven. zekers doorgaan.
persoonlijk lees ik liever nederlands, maar dit engels is nog prima te doen.

ik denk dat het een best goed verhaal kan worden als je doorgaat! ;)