When I was a child I wanted to be a historian. I longed for towers of books surrounding me and my small table. I craved the smell of old leather bound books in the air. I desired nothing more than to be able to sit in a chair with a book in my hand, and the countless of lives that are retold at my palms.
Who would’ve known that I’d grow up to be a trophy instead?
I wanted to be trapped in a tower filled with memories that are not mine, but instead I’m placed on pedestal with a glass case. I imagined my weekends spent in my room and becoming the the ruler of a civilization lost long ago, but now I spend my weekends in places I don’t even know and becoming a picture that carries a smile that never fails, never fades. I wanted to learn what happened in every dynasty, instead I learned how to smile big in front of a camera for how many hours without breaking a sweat. I drowned in foreign faces and voices instead of the Japanese haiku that I longed for. There were a lot of things that I wanted to do, but none of them were what I needed – or so they say.
I don’t have the right to complain. Or so they say.
Not everyone is treated like royalty or importance. Others dreamed of going to events, smiling to guests, laughter mixing with the soft spirits of wine, and I am able to have those. So what right do I have to complain?
It’s because I dream as well. I dream of being able to break this glass case that protects me from the dust of this world. I want to feel the harsh air that would rust my skin and dull my shine. I want to feel the cold hard ground that could break me apart. I dream to become a normal teenager.
I no longer wished to become a historian. I only wish to be able to climb down this pedestal and tear off this fake smile on my face.
So tell me does it stop? Being a trophy, I mean.
ofthoughtsandillusions 