insecure - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In this soft morning light I feel like I should be on my way to trade at the market. A whole morning to hand over a leaf? What was I thinking? Still my feet carry me onwards over the rain-kissed sidewalks amid the returning red-hues of the suburban homes. Only the expensive ones are occupied now, the rest are unwanted shells, great for scavenging but that's not why I'm here. When at last the house comes into view I stop dead. My heart thumping as if I was surrounded by a gang. Maybe he forgot me already. He's so happy in there and he won't want this leaf. Suddenly it looks fragile, inconsequential and common. There are hundreds just like it in the park. I let it fall to the ground. He doesn't need to see me. He doesn't need a leaf. That's when I see her. Wolfish even in the half-light and wearing the shiner I gave her.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
From the shadows comes a form. I know it's Mark from the looping strides that almost look like a moon-walk. Somehow I think the gravity has been turned down only around him. I try to keep my smile on the inside only, he really wouldn't like his gait to be a source of amusement. For all his casualness he's paper thin underneath. He'd never lash out, only make a self-deprecating joke, but I see the hurt in his eyes the other's don't. It's a good thing too, a bleeding heart gets you nowhere in this town and I kinda like having him around.
On the day Matilda opened her eyes for the first time, her parents were hazy blurs, but she had taken in their aromas, bathed in their soft words and felt the warm touch of gentle hands. Each time she had cried they came at once and so an idea of safety in her world developed, a foundation on which her future personality would rest. In the years that followed life wasn't so simple. Her father struggled to provide enough for the family and her mother had returned to work. Life was now daycare and tired parents who fitted every house chore into the weekend. Though they adored her with every atom of their bodies their tempers frayed, with each other and with her. She was praised when they felt guilty and chastised when they were frustrated. Inside, little Matilda grew a seed of worry, powerless as she was to mend the parents she loved or articulate her feelings. At school she became the teachers pet, at least by hard work she could avoid more angry voices coming her way...
I used to find sweating so gross. It was the dark stain under the pits of old men while they played boules in sun hot enough to drop a cow. To a teenager that's right up there with pus and puke. Perhaps in my so called maturity I've become obsessed, part of being an insecure person I guess, but I can't go three days now without running until I am sweatier than all of those grandpa's put together. When my hair is saturated and the salty drops run into my mouth it's a kiss of life. It's the reassurance that I can still run, still enjoy the body God gave me for years to come. I check for the grey hairs sometimes, none yet, but even if they sprouted faster than spring weeds I'm not ready to buy my boules set just yet.
Greg was the life of any room he was in. I heard him tell the same stories over and over, though in each rendition they became just a little bit more sensational. These tales of ordinary deeds and everyday humour became so tall that the truth became buried by his fiction. I could have called him out many times, taken him down so hard he'd have gotten a nosebleed on the floor, but his ego would have shattered. Under that extroverted exterior, beneath the mask of a clown, he didn't know where he belonged or who he was. At his core he felt only a void and so constantly layered a new identity around himself. I think he was simply frightened, scared that if he wasn't perceived as interesting he'd be abandoned by his "friends." The stupid thing was he wasn't empty at all, not when we talked about stuff that mattered. He was kind in a very honest sort of way and gentle in his nature. But somehow he couldn't rate those qualities in himself, couldn't hang his self esteem on them...
The painting dominates the walls, every colour is bold and painted with such precise lines that it almost looks like a mosaic. They are curved yet sharply defined; they seem to stable but tumble at the same time. Like me I think, so stable but always in free-fall inside. I am soft but can lampoon people who spark my anxieties without meaning to. I am bright but I often feel painted onto the background, like there really isn't anything of substance inside. I hope there is. I hope there is more meaning in my bones than tumbling colours, chaotic and shallow.
Even with her fortieth birthday looming on the horizon Aylsa was still an abandoned child. Everyone she met knew the inner most secrets of her life within minutes of meeting her. It was like watching someone bleed-out emotionally before your eyes, like that wound would just never heal. All these years on she still fell on every soul she met, floundering for someone to fill the unfillable.
Dawn's back was ramrod straight and she was dressed in a very simple black dress probably vintage YSL couture; if he knew her. She stretched her leg out sideways and pointed her toes. Nicholas recognized she was showing off a pair of Manolo Blahniks. They looked like some kind of a cowboy boot with a very spiky six inch heels. She was trying to reel in a compliment. She did know how to dress to impress a new boss, especially if the boss was a man. And she was beautiful in a model sort of way, but her personality sucked. She loved to play the put down game. She would point out someone across the room or gym and say how ugly they were or how awful their clothes were; her favorite adjectives were "idiot," "stupid," "retarded" or infinitely worse. She had a sharp wit, he’d give her that. He noticed she had a new haircut; she slipped him a small note. Jax glanced at it “New Dominatrix?" He tossed it back to her and flipped her off under the table.
All thoughts have the potential to grow toxic, but insecurities are born hungry.
"I don't know how to explain it," Melane said as she glanced at the sun. "I guess, I guess you're like the sun," she nodded her head towards the horizon. "You strive to spread your light, but you're too afraid to rise." She looked to my face and whispered, "Rebecca, do you know what the world would do if the sun never rose?"
I gazed at her face, scrunched into a questioning expression. My throat tightened as it always does right before I speak. "Well, I suppose that it wouldn't be as bright." I murmured.
"Yes.” She said sadly, "Without the light of the sun to brighten our days, the world would be depressing. Rebecca, you are that sun. The word needs to be set on fire by the real you: the you God made you to be."
"But Melane,” I protested, “What if I don't know how to rise?”
Melane looked at me with passion in her eyes, she jabbed a finger towards my heart. “The strength to rise comes from inside of you. You are the one who has to decide to break down the walls hiding your true self, and not care what people think. Rebecca, ask the maker who helps the sun rise everyday to guide you by the hand, as you learn to rise from your self-doubt and become all that he has planned.”
I'm a copycat, the best of them actually; a shape-shifter. My eyes continuously change colour and my hair its texture. One minute I may have midnight black hair with electric blue eyes that shock even me. The next minute I'm wielding strands of gold on a curling wand and drawing borders with eyeliner around the shining emeralds that were my eyes. I'm never just one person and I hate it. I may be one person now but within a few hours I'll be a completely different one. The one and only thing that each of my different personas seem to have in common is the insecurity buried deep within them, corrupting them. The calculating gaze judging and disapproving. I constantly stare back at myself, my hands adjusting ad readjusting, fixing and reforming yet I'm apparently never satisfied. I'd watch as I cake my face with more foundation and powder...will I ever be done? All my life I appeared to be some insecure girl; beautiful or not second guessing what everyone thought of her. For once I'd like to have my own personality and be my own person with my own unique features. For once I'd like to be more that just a reflection. I would go down on my knees and beg to be an original and never the replica, the carbon copy, no, never the mirror... it is unfortunate however, that this could never happen for I am indeed a mirror.
Grasping much reflecting little. Words follow me in tiny crowds, abandon me when needed. The desire to impress you is driving my fingers to type or attempt to type one of these incredibly (may I say ridiculous) sophisticated. Why is it easier here? The flow of words intact, confident yet still in confinement. It's this bittersweet sensation of striving to prove to yourself your capabilities only to fall victim to your insecurities.