I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Camille,
you have a bright intellegent face
beauty leaking from each pore.
You are a shine on the face of the earth
brighter then the stars in the sky
You have bountiful knowledge
Miles of jokes
Leagues of hugs
A surplus of kind, and loving
you are a fireperson
and a president
and a poet,
you are a mathematician and a sociologist
An oceanographer,
philosopher,
ambassador,
teacher.
you are only eleven
but your thoughts are ageless
