Style: Narrative
Statement: The more I wrote, the more I learned about myself. Every single thing I went through is what shapes me to be the person I am today. And I will continue to grow and add on to the person I am, just like the layers of a painting.
Describing myself; how do you even start? An introduction perhaps? Hi, I’m Kiana Saadieh, I’m 15 years old and I like to write, do art, and travel. I described myself, I said my name, how old I am, and 3 of my hobbies. That is the easy way to describe a person and we all tend to stick to that formula. But do you know the person? Like their identity, perspectives, and who they are? No, who wants just a crumb when you can have the whole cake? So let me describe myself the better way, by writing an essay.
My eyelashes fluttered slowly, I started to open my eyes and once they opened I was back in that hallway. Seeing the walls of my framed childhood paintings from when I was 6 to 8 years old. They were embarrassingly horrible yet they were framed in my parents' hallway and that's where they stayed for many years—touching the cool glass of the black framed artwork of various warm-colored tulips in a purple vase with different types of swiggles and patterns behind it. It was an oil pastel and watercolor piece. The frame had a thick coating of dust. Whenever I look at these artworks I notice they all were either different types of animals or various flowers courtesy of my art teacher.
They didn’t win any awards, they didn’t look good, and they didn’t have any meaning. Isn’t that why you would frame something and put it up so people can see it? So why frame them if they had no significance? Innocence could be it, the last things I made when I was young, another thing could be that making something I enjoyed regardless of the looks. My parents encased it in glass preserving it from fading away. I made it because I enjoyed making something I wanted without having a care or thought about it. If I wanted to paint a white bunny with its baby bunny in a plentiful garden full of flowers that's what I would do. I wouldn’t sit down and brainstorm ideas for what my painting should be, what colors to use or what meaning should it have.
Nowadays it takes me ages to choose something to paint but back then, it only took me a second. Time is the answer, you never have enough of it. As my father tells me time is the most valuable thing because it's one of the only things you cannot buy and it's limited. I know that now but of course when you’re a kid you never really have a sense of time. I think that's why my 6-year-old self always could instantly pick what to paint; she thought she could paint her other ideas next time. While in reality, she won’t have the time to.
I took a sharp breath as my heavy eyes wandered towards the end of the hallway where the door was; my room. A few paper pink and orange butterflies on a string hung in front with an evil eye hanging on a nail next to my door. I stepped on my ashy wood floorboards; they always creaked. Giving the door a slight push, as it opened I could see canvases on the wall and a few unfinished ones on the ground on an easel. A medium-sized white desk with a monitor and various art supplies on it ranging from my acrylic paint supplies to crayons. A queen-sized bed takes up most of the room with a tall black bookshelf on its right and a white nightstand to its left. My star LED lights around the room were illuminating the room My room is the place I spend most of my hours at. Comfort spread through my body the second I walked through my bedroom door.
I sat in the wheely black chair that my father gave me years ago, glancing at the wall with my paintings. Better, yet still needs more. In the artist’s eye, we always seem to see all the wrongs in our work criticizing ourselves endlessly. I always tend to do that in everything else I do or see as well. But almost everyone doesit's a human trait that is like lice; hard to get rid of. Looking at the various-sized paintings in front of me, I pondered. They weren’t framed, they didn’t carry the innocence the other ones did. These were exposed to the world, you can see the clear difference between them too.
My more recent ones are a collection of paintings of the sky with various shades of color. Reds, blues, and yellows but most had blues and purples to it. I can remember the process of making each one of these paintings. Long is one word for it, not because painting takes time but because you have to let it dry, have layers, and all that–no. Again, the meaning, creating something that everyone could look at in awe. Something that people can look at and be proud of this incredible creation I’ve made. I’ve always wanted to do that and it doesn’t have to be a painting, just something–anything. I just want them all to look at me and be proud by showing me off to the world. That “she is special, incredible, the best”. Especially that one: the best, a title I haven’t heard anyone call me. I know it is impossible to be the best at something because people come and go and eventually they will surpass you and then someone surpasses them. Maybe I just want the glory of it, I mean who doesn’t?
I turned away from my painting and walked towards the side of my bed. Sitting down on it a single sleepy blink slowly turned into me lying down in bed. My eyelashes flutter slowly I start to close my eyes and once they close. Darkness engulfed me and when they opened. A white room with an easel and a huge blank canvas in the middle. Various colors spread out on my color pallet that are freshly squeezed out. A painter and her model, think of which one I am.
You may assume of the two I would be the artist but no I am actually both and even the canvas. This is how my beginning started a blank canvas with no directions or tutorials on how or what to create. So how do I know how to start? The Model; her job is to model is to pose for the artist to paint the canvas. After time the model matures into a person who changes herself like her personality to find her identity, so what happens when the model changes her poses? Of course, the painter will paint over her work and change it. An endless loop with the piling layers that slowly get even better than before. Detail, endless amounts of it the neverending piling on as each layer gets added makes it into a masterpiece; a person; me.
A masterpiece that is constantly changing; improving or getting worse. The brushstrokes are my actions, the effects and events in my life. 15 years, 10 months, and 321 days I have lived for. I could go on endlessly about myself, I am not limited to anything at all. Isn’t that what a canvas is? A piece of work that you can paint anything you wish on it. Starting out blank but slowly ending up into a masterpiece with countless of complex layers, constant changes throughout the work and lastly a goal. Isn’t that what we are? When we are first born we are like a blank canvas slowly adding on to ourselves as we grow up. Each person has countless layers within themselves which creates the person and with each person their are goals they have in their life.
I rubbed my chest feeling a burning discomfort. A knot formed in my throat, I couldn’t swallow. My stomach twisted in knots; the nausea was overwhelming. Once I opened my mouth I was falling. Falling down, my screams couldn’t come out as my body was engulfed with this suffocating mass around me. Fear, thats what I am feeling my senses were screaming danger at me. Until I finally landed on something, it felt a bit moist and had a fresh sent to it; grass thats what it was. RUN!! My brain screamed to my legs as I was running in the dark not knowing where I was or where I was going. I felt myself shrinking making it harder for my short legs to move.
After some time I escaped the darkness and went through a maze of newly bloomed rose bushes that provided themselves with needle-like thorns. The crystal droplets drip down the pads of leaves onto the grass. I could feel my own Mother’s heavy gaze looking down on me. Where was I? Looking up at her the clouds were still shades of cool gray, somehow the smell of rain was still lingering in the air, hinting that Mother was still upset. She; the sky cried a lot recently this spring. It was easy for me to tell that she was in pain, and so was I. She could feel my pain too feeling devastated that she didn’t know how to help me. Her tears were in the grass beneath my bare feet but I was clueless to them even though they were right there. I was breathing in the cool, crisp air. There was a pleasant chill about it. I felt my tears dripping down my face.
I despised running but I wasn’t running because I was forced to. I was running away from something unknown. That even I don’t know of. I felt myself shrink with every step I took. One, ten, fifty—suddenly, I slipped. A cushion of grass beneath me was still wet with Mother’s tears. Back at failure’s doorstep, why is something so simple for others yet so difficult for me? My lungs burned from the cold spring air, taking quick, sharp breaths. The white dress I wore started to absorb the tears from my mother. Turning blue from the agony, gritting my teeth, feeling that sharp pain within my heart. The tears that strayed down my face burned me; my body was betraying me. My legs, my rosy cheeks, and my heart burned. My dull nails dug into the soil under me. I pushed myself up, yet I felt my consciousness pulling me down.
I looked behind me, feeling the ominous shadow catch up. Feeling that burning sensation within my calves and thighs increasing. My mind scalding; filling up with words that were engraved into my mind. It was too much, too little, and too fast. All I felt was an aching sensation throughout my body as if it was warning me to stop running. My lungs expand like a balloon for every breath. Yet adrenaline is a powerful thing and it was the only thing that pushed me to keep going.
I’m running again stumbling a bit. The thorns of the rosebushes cut me, but I didn’t let her stop me. I was hurt, but I wouldn’t say a word. But I kept going because I knew she didn’t mean it. Cuts scattered around on my body they weren't deep; just on the surface tiny droplets of rubies were dripping down them. The wounds on my body will heal they always did, but I know they will scar. I know she loved me just as I loved her. Glancing at her, she is so beautiful I will always be full of envy. Her bold red always stood out especially since she had such a slim stem and such a pretty face. The Rose is a classic and popular flower that is often one of the favorites. The Rose is often preferred over many other flowers and I was one of them. The Model always wished she was just like her and she tried to change herself so she could be just as pretty to look at. But the roses were always gorgeous even when they were wilted. I did always try to cheer her up, eventually she would bloom again. My favorite flower; My favorite girl.
The maze trail narrowed the more I ran, and I was frightened by countless amount of things. I was panting like panicked prey; a baby bunny didn’t know anything better than to run. Why wasn’t I seeing the end? Where was the end? When will it be? The droplets of tears landed on my face; Mother’s tears she was crying yet again but this time was different. Her sorrow was being poured onto me but I felt as if I was being stabbed over and over. It hurt more than the rose bushes, I knew why she was angry; thundering above me. Yet I treated it like an annoying scolding other than a warning or a calling. Her tears started to pour down, my thick brown hair soaked, and so was my white dress.
I dared to look behind me to see if the shadow was still after me, but once I looked back I fell. I cried out reaching out for Mother but her thunder and tears were all I heard. It was too late, crash, falling straight into the angered river. It was swallowing me whole as I reached for the sky. The waters were crashing against the rocks pulling me down with it. I was already drowning before I even fell into the roaring river. It felt so deep as if I had fallen into an ocean full of deep sorrow. I struggled to keep my head above the water. Maybe this was a punishment. I was sinking no matter how hard I kicked, trying to swim to the surface. The dark freezing water engulfed me. My breath being stolen from me, I reached out for my air but instead, I breathed in the sorrow. I looked around as I fell deeper, only seeing bubbles.
The bubbles reflected me as if they were a mirror. Each bubble I looked at myself seeing all the wrongs. My face fat, my stomach fat, and my legs fat. Everything is bigger than it should be. Thinking of the word beauty all I thought of was the Rose but I could never think of myself. I was scratching my face trying to rip off all my insecurities, the acne, the scabs, anything that would regard me as not “pretty”. My reflections they all were looking at me. Judging me—no it was me I was judging myself, I was the odd one out after all, the other girls didn’t look like me. Hourglass body, clear skin, and pretty face. I knew I wasn't. I was trying to fit myself into the mold I wasn’t made for. The sorrow I was engulfed in was getting to me. Looking back at the bubbles I saw red, the scratches all over my face, trying to erase the imperfect. It's ironic since I was doing the quite opposite and making it worse. I was creating more imperfections by trying to erase the ones that were already there.
My face was bleeding, tainting the sorrow around me with my own. I looked up, the sun was out shining over the water. I reached out for the light; My Mother. I felt like a baby reaching out for her warmth, wanting to be in her arms to caress me. I wanted that, I missed that; being her little girl. I wanted to stay like this forever; stay young forever. I looked down feeling a warm hand wrapping around my ankle. It wasn’t Mother, it was her, the one chasing me. She looked at me swimming up in front of me. I looked her up and down, she was a stranger to me. But to her, I was no stranger. It was me but older, not a 13-year-old little girl no more, no. But a 15-year-old girl, she had a soft smile on her face.
She looked different, her hair shorter with streaks of blonde I had been running from her from the very start. She wraps her arms around me. “It's okay, It will all be alright.” her words were like silk with a hint of depth compared to mine; her voice had matured. The tears welled up in my eyes I didn’t hesitate wrapping my arms around her. “I don’t want to go yet,” my voice shaky a bit raspy, my eyes burned from how much I had cried. “You don’t have to…you’ll always be a part of me.” She smiled at me her hug felt warm, reminding me how good it felt to be hugged.
My eyelashes fluttered close, and when I opened them, I was back to 15. I swam to the surface escaping the sorrow by accepting it, leaving it all behind me. I gasp the hopeful air filling up my lungs. I smiled feeling the sun on my face. I was on land now, the sky was the same shades of fruit, just as sweet too. The grass beneath my feet felt warm and fresh. The winds carried my laughter throughout the lands. I looked around seeing the various types of flowers surrounding me. In the very distance, I saw Rose’s. I pushed my damp hair back as I started running.
My Mother wasn’t crying anymore, she wore the brightest smile and so did I. The winds push me further toward what's in front of me. My dress wasn’t wet anymore and neither was my short thick hair. I ran through the meadows I wasn’t running from anything anymore. I know that I can run all I want and I already know I won’t escape because that's how life is. I guess that's why Earth is a sphere. But this time I wasn’t running away, I glanced behind me and saw the maze I was trapped in for what I thought was endless.
You always think that the hardest moments and events in life feel like forever but it only seems that way because of how hard it is.
I will admit that these moments I had in life were some of the most difficult things mentally that I have gone through. They may have been hard and painful but they have helped me paint myself into the person I am now. I accept that I may not be the best at something or look exactly how I wish I looked. But I don’t need to be the best at something for me to be amazing. Trying to be a person that I am not doesn’t fit me and being your genuine self is the most gorgeous thing in the world.
I know it sounds cocky but I think of myself as a masterpiece I think that everyone and everything is a masterpiece as well. Their looks, personalities, and their emotions. The way we are is for a reason and everyone is full of details, layers, and more that make them magnificent! I see myself, the people around me, and the rest of the universe as an ongoing painting that will continue to change and add to the story of their lives. As for my canvas? Like the rest, it's still ongoing and I’m sure that I will have countless new experiences that will be good or bad. So you got the whole cake, after all, that do you know me? The answer is still no because I only talked about a small fragment of myself in the 15 years I’ve lived. But after a bit more than 8 pages You have definitely got to understand the type of person I am. I can already guarantee you that I will change quite a bit, like I said my painting still has a long way to go and I can’t wait to see how it will turn out.
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