I twist the clown’s face so that it evolves into my happy face reflecting in the bathroom mirror. I hold authority over my creation. I sculpt friendships out of an ideal. I mold beauty from impossible dreams. I chisel acceptance from my imagination. I fool myself every day. My perpetual game misleads me. I am willing to be cheated into happiness. I’m happy because my story is believed. I will my smiling image to hold true. Every time I replay the image in my mind, its holes are filled in, its attached authenticity is stronger, and my faith in it is renewed.
But the mirror merely shows an unreliable reflection of myself. I have never seen me. I can only guess at who I am.
The author of my story should be one who is uncluttered with self-pity, unmarked with greedy desires, cleansed of dependence, and has her feet planted firmly on the ground. I’m still trying to find my author, trying to peel away the fermented shelter that I’m crouching behind.
I’m there, underneath the varnish, shouting for help to be rescued from the sugary syrup I’ve created from seeping in. I’m not going to pull me out, however. I’ve decided that digesting the sticky syrup will be good for me. The clown reminds me daily that my smile must be firmly stuck onto my face-it’s part of the rules of the game. Therefore, I cannot tell you what my story is. I haven’t hired anyone to write it yet. I’m not sure if I am prepared to bring my daydreams, illusions and visions to life. I’m scared that my imagined story won’t be better than the story I threw out. If my creation fails, what will I have to keep me waking up and breathing? My images, ultimately, control me.
Cite this My Story Personal Narrative
My Story Personal Narrative. (2019, May 06). Retrieved from https://graduateway.com/personal-narrative-essay-my-story-personal-narra/