Chapter 1: Every Story has a Beginning
Red carpets
Rumors spread
Fans scream
High heels gleam
White teeth
Hollywood heat
Magazines
Movie scenes
Highlights
Celeb fights
Designer clothes
Strike a pose
Interviews
Camera crews
Hard to get
No debt
Sold out shows
Everyone knows
Strobe lights
Late nights
Autographs
Makes everyone laugh
But underneath all the blitz
Is just another person reading this.
Chloe jotted down her poem as her English teacher tediously droned on about verbs. Or was it nouns? Either way Chloe didn’t give a damn. Her life has been one of humiliation, intrigue, painful hormone treatments, and invitation-only Chanel sample sales. English could wait. She poured over every fashion, celebrity, and pop culture magazine that plopped in her mailbox, she had an utter fixation with Hollywood and scrumptious starlets that called it home. Along with fame, Chloe had a burning desire for love. I’m talking about mind-bending, heart-thumping, soul-stirring love. The kind you read about in romance novels. The kind you see on TV’s and movies. She wanted sweep-you-off-your-feet, too-excited-to-speak, Love with a capital L. One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter. Chloe Snow was your average teenager, her life was unbearably empty, not to mention mind-bogglingly boring. If one's every move isn't gossip-column fodder or fan-website worthy, does one even matter in the grand scheme of things? And darlings, Chloe wanted to matter. She wanted to matter very, very desperately. We all possess the thunder of pure fury and the calm breeze of tranquility. If it wasn't for tomorrow, how much would we get done today? Whatever your purpose... embrace it completely.
It's terribly unfair, because Chloe was made for paparazzi stalkers and tabloid headline notoriety. She constantly dreamed of velvet ropes and open bars, aviator sunglasses and seaweed scrubs, sexy photo shoots, pony-skin handbags, and gold-leaf invitations to VIP events. The kind of exclusive fete frequented by glossy-magazine editors, DJs, models, photographers, and stylists. So where did Chloe go wrong? In the back of her mind, she always thought that by the time she reached fifteen, she’d have something: either a rich and successful boyfriend who kept her in couture or else a fabulous and fulfilling Hollywood career that garnered the respect and envy of her peers. But instead of ascending up the New York circles via legacy or meritocracy, she spent her days in dingy school classrooms and her nights in front of the television, basking in the presence of Hannah Montana and Oprah. It was all getting to be vastly predictable and surprisingly tedious, not to mention lonely. She was the kind of girl who laughed loudly, dreamed religiously, and appeared to be hell-bent on destroying herself, but stylishly. Truthfully, Chloe should have tragically overdosed by then. Or else succumbed to some harrowing disease brought on by cola tonics and Tic Tacs. We do not choose to be born. We do not choose our parents, or our times or country of birth, or the circumstances of our upbringing. We do not – most of us – choose to die, or the conditions surrounding our death. But within all this realm of voicelessness, we do choose how to live– courageously or in cowardice, honorably or dishonorably, passionately or miserably. We decide what is important and what is petty, what makes us significant if what we dream, who we love and what we see. A successful life is one that is lived through understanding and pursuing one's own path, not chasing after the dreams of others.
Red carpets
Rumors spread
Fans scream
High heels gleam
White teeth
Hollywood heat
Magazines
Movie scenes
Highlights
Celeb fights
Designer clothes
Strike a pose
Interviews
Camera crews
Hard to get
No debt
Sold out shows
Everyone knows
Strobe lights
Late nights
Autographs
Makes everyone laugh
But underneath all the blitz
Is just another person reading this.
Chloe jotted down her poem as her English teacher tediously droned on about verbs. Or was it nouns? Either way Chloe didn’t give a damn. Her life has been one of humiliation, intrigue, painful hormone treatments, and invitation-only Chanel sample sales. English could wait. She poured over every fashion, celebrity, and pop culture magazine that plopped in her mailbox, she had an utter fixation with Hollywood and scrumptious starlets that called it home. Along with fame, Chloe had a burning desire for love. I’m talking about mind-bending, heart-thumping, soul-stirring love. The kind you read about in romance novels. The kind you see on TV’s and movies. She wanted sweep-you-off-your-feet, too-excited-to-speak, Love with a capital L. One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter. Chloe Snow was your average teenager, her life was unbearably empty, not to mention mind-bogglingly boring. If one's every move isn't gossip-column fodder or fan-website worthy, does one even matter in the grand scheme of things? And darlings, Chloe wanted to matter. She wanted to matter very, very desperately. We all possess the thunder of pure fury and the calm breeze of tranquility. If it wasn't for tomorrow, how much would we get done today? Whatever your purpose... embrace it completely.
It's terribly unfair, because Chloe was made for paparazzi stalkers and tabloid headline notoriety. She constantly dreamed of velvet ropes and open bars, aviator sunglasses and seaweed scrubs, sexy photo shoots, pony-skin handbags, and gold-leaf invitations to VIP events. The kind of exclusive fete frequented by glossy-magazine editors, DJs, models, photographers, and stylists. So where did Chloe go wrong? In the back of her mind, she always thought that by the time she reached fifteen, she’d have something: either a rich and successful boyfriend who kept her in couture or else a fabulous and fulfilling Hollywood career that garnered the respect and envy of her peers. But instead of ascending up the New York circles via legacy or meritocracy, she spent her days in dingy school classrooms and her nights in front of the television, basking in the presence of Hannah Montana and Oprah. It was all getting to be vastly predictable and surprisingly tedious, not to mention lonely. She was the kind of girl who laughed loudly, dreamed religiously, and appeared to be hell-bent on destroying herself, but stylishly. Truthfully, Chloe should have tragically overdosed by then. Or else succumbed to some harrowing disease brought on by cola tonics and Tic Tacs. We do not choose to be born. We do not choose our parents, or our times or country of birth, or the circumstances of our upbringing. We do not – most of us – choose to die, or the conditions surrounding our death. But within all this realm of voicelessness, we do choose how to live– courageously or in cowardice, honorably or dishonorably, passionately or miserably. We decide what is important and what is petty, what makes us significant if what we dream, who we love and what we see. A successful life is one that is lived through understanding and pursuing one's own path, not chasing after the dreams of others.