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the poetry of my childhood
I want to leave the house. I want to live in the city. I want to write an endless novel and poetry. I want to ruin the house because it is not my home, anymore. It is not the painting that I made when I was five. I want to burn the house because it is not my home, anymore. It is not the prose that I've written when I was seven. And I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself because my little Cordelia couldn't write my memoir anymore.
It's Friday afternoon. I decided to leave the house. I'm the only one who still lives there. My mother ruins her wooden cello. My father destroyed his camera. My younger sister breaks her legs. I was the one who still paints and writes my own artistic and literary journey, for my little Cordelia to still write my autobiographical poetry.
I'm still the little Cordelia who runs at the top of the hills to play with Stella, our dog, during summer. I'm still the little Cordelia who plucks the flowers during spring to make a garland. I'm still the little Cordelia who decorates our Christmas tree during winter. And now, I'm Mary Margaret, who writes prose, not poems but prose during Autumn. I want to be Mary Margaret because I am Mary Margaret. But my little Cordelia still wants to continue writing my memoir.
And now, at this moment, I've decided to leave the house to travel the world, for me to write my memoir. For me to write my autobiographical poetry. For me to see the serene sea and remember the nudiustertian sunset that I've been longing for since I was eleven. I'll go to the city to study and teach. And to find him, he is the theme of my artistic and literary book of life.
I'm walking slowly as I remember all the memories of my childhood, as I leave the girl that I'll miss forever. I promise that I'll become the painter and writer that she dreams of. Now, I want to see him for the last time in the city, the person who teaches me what art and literature is.
For the last time, I wrote my last letter to my little Cordelia, saying thank you for writing the poetry of my childhood.
© cfwang
It's Friday afternoon. I decided to leave the house. I'm the only one who still lives there. My mother ruins her wooden cello. My father destroyed his camera. My younger sister breaks her legs. I was the one who still paints and writes my own artistic and literary journey, for my little Cordelia to still write my autobiographical poetry.
I'm still the little Cordelia who runs at the top of the hills to play with Stella, our dog, during summer. I'm still the little Cordelia who plucks the flowers during spring to make a garland. I'm still the little Cordelia who decorates our Christmas tree during winter. And now, I'm Mary Margaret, who writes prose, not poems but prose during Autumn. I want to be Mary Margaret because I am Mary Margaret. But my little Cordelia still wants to continue writing my memoir.
And now, at this moment, I've decided to leave the house to travel the world, for me to write my memoir. For me to write my autobiographical poetry. For me to see the serene sea and remember the nudiustertian sunset that I've been longing for since I was eleven. I'll go to the city to study and teach. And to find him, he is the theme of my artistic and literary book of life.
I'm walking slowly as I remember all the memories of my childhood, as I leave the girl that I'll miss forever. I promise that I'll become the painter and writer that she dreams of. Now, I want to see him for the last time in the city, the person who teaches me what art and literature is.
For the last time, I wrote my last letter to my little Cordelia, saying thank you for writing the poetry of my childhood.
© cfwang
