Image of a Golden Flower



Today I've decided to write for Chrysanthemum--she is away. Staying with some friend, taking some lesson. It doesn't matter to me. Maybe I can write my troubles away.

I guess I've been too sad to do much to settle in. Most of my things are still packed. Chrysanthemum already has many friends, is taking lessons and making things. I'm the writer, and the artist--but Chrysanthemum is good with her hands. She has so many models all around her room. She is a few months younger than I am. But she is far more beautiful. Her hair springs from her head like petals from a flower. She always complains that she can't do anything with it, it's too short, too curly. I wish I had hair like hers--mine is so plain. Brown, straight, ugly. And she has friends.

I know it's bad of me to complain. But I need some way to let it out. Nothing seems to be working out, and everything is going the wrong way. I wish I could slow everything down. And oh, how I miss the snow. So white, shining and beautiful. Here the air feels strange, wet, and still. Chrysanthemum used to say that the air farther north was dry, and seemed to whip the liquid out of her. But I suppose that is simply us, two opposites--she a bright flower in the field, I a dark night above snowy ground.



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