"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

According to the definition of the word, you aren’t technically dead. To be dead means that you were once alive. Were you? If a poster was once alive, it would be pretty splendid.

Alive is the opposite of dead, but one can be neither dead or alive.

Opposites are more similar than they seem.

Sometimes I ask myself, what does it mean to be alive? Sure, there are people. Then there are dead people. There are plants, then there are crushed plants, ripped from their roots. Flowers pressed into bookmarks between crisp, browned pages until the wilt and disassemble; the petals falling slowly. Are they alive? Were they alive? Did they feel what they should have felt?

Alive applies to those who we don’t think have a conscious, but in a different definition.

Today I walked down the hallways in school. Thanksgiving Break ended yesterday, and the regret of what I could have done had sunk in enough already. Every little moment that could be cherished; gone. Poof. Magic.

It hits me sometimes; the fact that it’s tomorrow. That today is yesterday. That today is here, but yet so far away. To close my eyes and walk through the school’s front doors in the morning, and flutter them open as I walk to the buses seven hours later. Seven hours, in one blink.

Maybe for a poster, it all seems fast. Or slow. Or nothing at all. That’s probably what it is, but Lorde, you stare at me through sparkling, dark eyes all the time, and I can never feel as if someone isn’t watching me. It’s comforting. I’m never really alone. But that sounds creepy, so I never really focus too much on it.

I guess I should have written this letter to Lorde, but she isn’t dead. You are. A poster of her posing for the ‘Rolling Stone’. Fierce. With her hair flaring up, as if she doesn’t care that it’ll get frizzy. She knows it looks flawless anyway. Sunken cheeks. Arched eyebrows. Black on black. Hands in her pockets. Dark lipstick. Daring. I find myself wishing that I was brave enough to wear bold lipstick and walk around as if I was confident. As if I was comfortable in what I was. As if I was truly brave.

Then I see her eyes; her dark eyes. They sparkle, you just have to look closely. They shine with pride. I guess that’s what it takes to be ‘The Girl Who Broke The Rules’, as the poster says.

Beside you is a poster of Shailene Woodley, straight from a Tiger Beat magazine. I didn’t get the magazine for myself, really. Aunt Alice did last year, saying that I should look for a style for my wardrobe before school starts. Between all of those white, photoshopped, identical-looking women slathered in makeup, I really couldn’t find anything other than the ‘sexy’ outfits they put on the only dark-skinned women.

Shailene Woodley is smiling. Not at me. Never at me. Her eyes always miss mine. She looks happy. Her eyes are brighter, with a cute touch.

I don’t know why I put posters on my wall in the first place. They’re all kind of meaningless, mind you. They portray people that I’ll never be. People that I don’t even think about much. Why do I have a poster of Lorde on my wall? Why? Why do I have a book poster for a book I never felt prone to reading?

Months ago, I used to have more. One Direction. 5 Seconds of Summer. The Vamps. Demi Lovato. Becky G. Pop. People that were all the rage. I didn’t like their music, though. I didn’t enjoy their presence in my bedroom, watching me sleep, smiling with the same creepy smiles every second. In fact, I hated it. So, I ripped them off.

Some, I teared apart. I ripped them to shreds, so that I’d never feel compelled to tape them back up onto my wall. Others, I folded away into a drawer that I never opened, hoping that it wouldn’t overflow. Then, I laughed, feeling the power of a person who didn’t give a second thought about what wasn’t “alive”.

But there was an empty feeling. Nothing on my wall. The only colored wall in my room, painted blue-green, the paint my brother chose for his room, but was accidentally painted in my room instead. A vast sea of color. You, or rather, Lorde was there, in the center, a little lopsided. Little scraps of glue and chipped paint were scattered around, leaving the wall to be a little more than a cleanly cut block of color, but rather textured, as a wall should be.

Now, I have you, Shailene Woodley, a book poster for ‘Challenger Deep’, and a poster for my once-favorite animated tv show. Not meaningful. Not something I’d miss in specific. I’d miss the business though. I like the fact that there is something there, whether I care about it’s well-being or not.

Friends can be like that too, I guess. Some friends are there because I like their personality, their humor, and their presence. They help me, and I help them. They show me things in a different perspective, even if they don’t mean to. Then, there are some that sit at the same lunch table as I do. The ones that I talk to once in a while, if not in a group conversation. The people that I wouldn’t mind moving away from, because I know that I can replace the gap that they left with something else, whether that thing is breathing or not.

I must say, this isn’t much of a love letter. I wouldn’t miss you if I threw you away, and neither would you.

I’ll probably write to you again, or maybe to something else, just for the hell of it.

To the poster of Lorde in my room,

Do you consider yourself alive?