Review: We Were Liars

Can you believe I've managed to finish a book again? Two today, to be correct. This one and Harry Potter 6 (because I might be very close to the deadline as I borrowed it from the library and yeah, I still haven't read all of the HP books. Now I'm watching the movie and I think it's my least favourite one so far. Lavender Brown is the most annoying person in the whole series.)
225 pages of pure amazingness.
To get back to my actual motivation for this post: We Were Liars. It's on my Amazon wishlist and luckily, one of my best friends let me lend it from her.
At first you don't really know what to make out of the whole story. There's Cadence Sinclair Eastman. Beautiful, rich, 18 years old, with a group of friends (which are her cousins and another friend of them) on the island her grandfather owns. They see each other every summer.
Soon you get sucked into Cadence's way of telling you her story and you begin wondering what's happened to the happy, blonde girl, who's now on medication and has died her hair black. I admit I had several theories but in the end, none of them turned out to be true and the actual truth, the actual ending is more unexpected than I could have imagined. The twist is fantastic.

And the book is fantastic as well because it's a splendid example of how you can play with words, their meanings, variate them, use them for confusion and mystery. I loved the style of writing, a mix out of poetry and literarian story-telling. Probably not for everyone though.

There's not much else I want to say about it, except: Read it and see what it does to your mind for yourself. And pay attention to the words. The matter most if you want to get behind it. Definitely a 100/10.

I'm in a very pathetic mood today and I think reading this book triggered it. Cadence can't remember fragments of her past, of the night in which her accident happened.
I can only remember fragments either. Probably even less.
My childhood memories are what I managed to put together with the help of the stories my parents and grandparents always tell me and some old pictures I found. Nevertheless, I can only remember those moments, I can't connect them. You know you're sort of losing your sanity when you have to start analyzing yourself in order to figure out what happened. I guess what happened is that there were too many bad memories in primary school and the first years of high school so I had to shut out everything.
And I can't remember the good memories I've made during this years, only to compensate what the bad ones have done to me. Looking back at it, I wished I had faced them. I know "What ifs" won't help the situation, but let's distance ourselves from rationality for a bit.
What if I had told my parents about the bullying? What if I had shown everyone how much I suffered instead of playing along and pretending I was okay, that what they said didn't strike me?
I know that, admitting to be too weak to deal with it on my own, as a little girl of 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 years would have had a less intense impact on me. You're always wiser in the end, right, aha. If someone had know what was going on, maybe they could have stopped it. Maybe I wouldn't be as distrusting and afraid of things and people I don't know, wouldn't want to run away from experiences who require me to take a risk. Because hell yes, I want to discover the world and see lots of what it has to offer, but I'm so scared I would probably panic if I was standing at the airport and run as far as my feet would take me. I hate how I know this is connected to my past and I can't help it, I can't make any severe changes anymore.
I think those feelings and thoughts are the reason why I still can't forgive the people I grew up with. They were children, they didn't know what they were doing - and yet I still find myself wanting to punch them in the face, just once. Because they aren't even aware of what they did to me.

Sometimes it's easier to put all the blame on others. And yet there's so much else to regard that contributes to the whole picture, to the person I am today.

A person reaching for freedom whilst being terrified of losing their safety.

Pretty sure I shouldn't out this out here on the interwebs (I like that word, yep), but I don't care. That people can't hurt me as much as they used to anymore is at least a little progress. Although, depends if you want to call it progress when you sometimes feel a little more heartless inside.

Sorry, I just realized this post must have seemed really disturbing to you. Don't worry, I'm okay, I promise.

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