Or How the Day Begins
The heroine of this story is not heartbroken.
She has not been recently hurt and she does not try to solve her ninety-nine problems. She has not lost a loved one and she does not grieve for life’s cruelty. She does not worry about anyone in particular, and she is definitely not interested in discovering anyone’s secrets.
The heroine of this story is actually minding her own goddamn business.
She looks out of the window at the sun that warms her skin after a long winter and puts her hair up, in a messy half-bun. She wonders whether to go for a run or stay home and plot a story that has been stuck in her head for a few days.
The heroine of this story thinks again and decides that she must write. The story will be about memories and how they resemble films unconsciously created, our whole life featured in our mind’s empty cinema.
The heroine of this story believes that we are our own heroes. That we should cherish our smiles and tears, our rights and wrongs, our successes and failures. She is certain that the originality and uniqueness of the scenario depends entirely up to us. “How much of my true self I allow to be visible in my own film?” She wonders aloud.
The heroine of this story may or may not be the heroine of the story in her head. She does not particularly care because the heroine of this story has decided to let the sun warm her skin a bit more, the coffee’s aroma invade her senses, and her eyes to wander the clear blue morning sky.
The heroine of this story will smile before she sits on her desk because she simply breathes free another day.