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Hi! I'm Izzy. I love am a hyper, Christian, unicorn-loving, homeschooled, 14yo girl. I love graphic design, drawing, photography, writing and own my own business called I am also a HUGE advocate against human trafficking.

Message from Writer

Your sitting in your bedroom. You look around and sigh uncomfortably. You have nothing to do. Your phone is dead, your friends are doing homework and your parents are out of town. Then you get an idea, one that is so smart, you almost scream for joy. You jump out of bed, grab your laptop, pull up and WRITE!

Confessions of Noa Oscar-Part I

February 22, 2019


   Line. Dot. Dot. Curve. Line. Dot. Dot. Curve.

   This is the pattern I follow as my hand strokes across the thin, flat, piece of paper. The lines are smooth and centered, and it makes my mind feel calm. The black ink seeps into the eggshell white drawing pad, and I grimace a little as I accidentally hold the pen in the same place for too long. I shake it off, and try to stay concentrated. I just have to get this one done. I didn't though. No one was expecting me to have it done, I was drawing for myself. The lines, dots, and curves finally formed into an image, something new---yet familiar. I smiled to myself, and brushed my finger gently along the lines. The doorway, perfect in size, with the little ceramic cat looking up, looked too perfect. My smile faded. I was remembering my home the way I had always believed it would be, not how it really was. I crumpled up my drawing and threw it on the ground. I didn't want to draw the reality, for I knew if I did, it would feel empty and dangerous. It would swallow the paper in blackness, and people would shudder if they ever got a glance at it. So I didn't draw it. I didn't draw the broken window, or the tilted doormat, the piled mail, or the leaky roof. If I did, it would just be scribbles, like that of a toddler. Maybe the viewers, those looking at my drawing, wouldn't feel the emotion anyway. The yelling, the abandonment, the loneliness. The terror. So I drew something else. Or wrote, that is. I wrote a name. A name I had promised never to mention, never to utter, ever again. But I broke my own promise. A promise to myself. I wasn't betraying anyone but my heart. Yet, I felt guilty anyway. I was careful, and precise with my letters. I made sure each letter had emotion. When I had finished, the name stared back at me. A flood of tears came up, my anger raging. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I hurt myself further? I crumpled the page once again, this time disgust as my motive. No one should ever hear that name. I wouldn't put anyone through it again. Including myself. But even though I made this vow, the name still echoed aimlessly throughout my mind. 


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  • February 22, 2019 - 12:42pm (Now Viewing)

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