I'm Shakira, and I been sort-of-here for 17 years. And with those digits increasing I'll start hating everything I've ever written. I'd hate this sentence that I've only created to describe a melancholy visual of the ocean: full of wrath but dead as it'd be in the hurricane-season; except it's not the hurricane season. Then I'll go off about something less general, less poetic; like forgetting to bring a pencil to school. My jittering fingers tapping on a desk shortly followed by a prickly sensation on the tippy-top of my spine. Almost like the pencil floated off the dining room table, out through the doors, and into the squeaky second-floor halls of the school. It would stab at me until the blood, guts, and moans started to spill on the classroom floor. I could hear pens scratching, text-message alerts and that blurred version of my teacher's voice that plays behind my daydreams. I'll go on and say that those daydreams consist of colorful rays amidst the sky, shitting out bright, golden 'superb' stars, but I'd be lying. It'd just be something almost authentic-like; having my lips pressed on another, a building's architecture, a boy unbuckling his pants, 5-minutes of internet fame, what movie I should watch when I get home, oral sex, DMV visits. To conclude it all; a melancholy visual of me..
Look how easy it is to hate.
“The more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing.”
— Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary