While making rather lame, half-hearted attempts to clean my room early–and by early I mean at midnight–this morning I discovered a notebook I bought from Barnes and Noble’s with rather cliche trendy vector art on the front. Inside are notes and doodles ranging from measurements for a print job I had to do to really inaccurate algebra (y=mx+b) and notes on American art history before the Civil War. On the very first few pages, however, was a failed attempt at a beginning of the Alyce Chronicles. Indeed, Alyce came off sounding very lofty and not at all her age! It’s kind of funny, really, imagining a child speaking this way! Not to mention, this beginning would mean that the story would start somewhat in medias res, but not quite. Maybe it is better to say that it would have started in the middle of the beginning. Oh well, whatever. This is why I am not a writer. Wordsmithing is best left to the professionals. So, keep that in mind while you’re reading this:
As it were, I have become a nationless wanderer, yet I do not roam the world anymore, but I roam my mind. Today is my birthday, and I have yet to partake of any celebratory activities.
However, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, in their great excitement, have jumped the gun and presented me with their gift: the very journal in which I write now. So, all the little fleeting thoughts that previously never had a home but wandered between my conscious and subconscious now have a place to live.
Ah! But, I have gotten ahead of myself. I referred to myself as “nationless”, and, by that, I mean I have no real group to which I feel I truly belong. Here, at court, I am treated as royalty, but as nobody’s friend. I am looked upon with the cold distance of enforced respect, devoid of appreciation for the human heart beneath these fine threads. Try as I might, the people here refuse to use my name without a title preceding it. At home, I was just me–just Alyce.