Treat You Better - Day 59 // s.m.

I

"Writing love songs is the easy part. Writing the songs that are about life and the things that actually happen to you is the hard part."
-Shawn Mendes

Day 1

I believe that we have two very separate sections of our human brains.

On the one hand, there's the segment that we consistently use. The part that gives us the basics. We get our supply of daily emotions from this piece of our brains. We see what has just occurred in our daily routine.

But the second part of the brain, that's where I get lost in my own theory. This is where we are able to supply even more detail to the situation we are in, to sort out the scenario on a whole new level. Give a reaction, or response.

The second part of my brain is the part that I used to constantly disregard. Presumedly because it's so difficult to dig into, too complicated to interpret. But when I finally did, that's when I started to know myself.

I see different ways that I'm affected by something that's happened. I'm given a solution, what to do next.

I just got punched in the arm and it didn't feel good.

The second segment tells me to grab my arm where I was hit, bite back a groan, give the puncher a glare, and wait for an apology. That's not everyone's response. Most people would probably immediately hit back, actually. But I'm able to see how I react, and that's why it's so important to check in on the detailed part of your brain on a regular basis.

One thing I've taken notice of: there are several people in this age that don't make the best decisions for themselves. Others describe this process as "not thinking."

But really, the people that make stupid choices and have to suffer the reasonable consequences, they actually do think.

They just use the incorrect part of their brains to do it.

And that, my friends, that is why not many people know much about their own affects. What they're capable of.

I'm eighteen today. Fortunately for me, there hasn't exactly been one single mistake that stands out above the rest. I haven't regretted anything so much that it basically takes over my life. I strongly believe I owe credit to myself-- I was at a point where I was thinking with my entire brain.

About three years ago, I decided this discovery would be the perfect opportunity to start writing. Writing about my life. Now that I knew I could see exactly what happens and how I'm affected by each situation I come across.

I had every intention of becoming successful as a best-selling author. Or perhaps a poet. Maybe even a playwright, I wasn't sure at the time.

But as I later uncovered, not much happened to me.

I attend one daily class at our nearby University-- which isn't far from where Mum and Dad and my sister Aaliyah live, but far enough that it was much more convenient for me to move into an apartment nearby. At the end of the day, I go straight from the school to pick up dinner for myself at the Chinese Palace down the street, then back home to study and finish homework.

I crawl into the same bed every night, in the same room, texting the same people goodnight-- It's not that I didn't appreciate or accept change, it's just that there was never room for any.

I wasn't even majoring in writing. After I had originally filled out my application and had it reviews by my father, he instantly shook his head, cleared his throat, and mumbled, "writing is not a career for you to make a living off of."

And that is the story of how I'm taking a class in engineering. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being forced or anything. Engineering was actually my second choice. I'll make a lot of money once I graduate and get a job, money that I can begin saving for the future and whatnot. It won't be terrible. It just won't be anything exciting or meaningful, which I guess is what I always assumed I would be doing as an adult.

Last year, I was able to contact a song-writing agency that ran completely over the internet. I applied for a part-time internship, and the CEO agreed to hire me after I sent the company a few of the songs I had written. It was perfect. I didn't have to drive anywhere or pay for anything, just sit on the bed with my laptop and guitar by my side and brainstorm.

I didn't sell too many, at least, not at first. Success was gradual. After selling one of my 2am question-existence songs to Justin Timberlake, it took off. The company offered me a big-ass promotion, and I started selling songs like crazy.

It never started to seem forced. Like it was a job. It always felt natural, like I was just having a good time and taking part in a hobby, casually making money along the way.

I'm still in college. I'm still going to graduate. But at least now, my life isn't a total bore.

When I finally sat down to question how any of this actually happened, it all seemed so obviously transparent and dangerously temporary. I went from being a complete blanker to one who discovers new thoughts and theories on life and love nearly everyday. I had never experienced the feeling of owning the ability to pin my knowledge somewhere.

Until her.

Her name was Madison. She's what you might call one of those humans that-- all objectification aside-- I would kill to see popping out of a packaged cardboard box for me on Christmas Day.

The first thing I noticed about Madison wasn't that she was cute. Even though she actually really was, with her beach-wavy curly strawberry blonde hair, her shiny emerald green eyes that would light up when she smiles.  She could flutter the hearts of millions with a single wink of her mascara'd eye.

But the first thing I saw when I looked at her for the first time was, yes indeed, her kind heart. Maybe that sounds cheesy, but for god's sake the girl was basically carrying Mrs. Fabor-- the elderly woman who lives in our apartment building-- up the outdoor staircase with her thin arms as she climbed it step by step.

I watched as she reached the top, and helped Mrs. Fabor all the way down the narrow hallway to her apartment. I could've helped, but at the time, I was too mesmerized by what I was witnessing.

After I had scaled the staircase and sulked all the way to the door of my apartment, carrying a bag of rice and noodles over my left wrist, she most likely assumed for the moment that I was following her. She turned over her shoulder once she skidded to a halt, checking to see if I was going to wait outside her door or something.

But I just fished my keys out of the pocket of my jeans, unlocking my own door, which was just a few feet away from the one she was about to enter-- giving her a slight, friendly smile before stepping inside and promptly closing the door behind me.

The only thing wrong with Madison, as I later uncovered, is that she never dug into the second part of her brain. She never looked passed what was going on to give herself a proper reaction.

Madison had no idea what she was like. She had no idea how affected she was by every single thing she did.

That's where I come in. I mean sure, maybe it's cliché. But believe me, that was only the beginning.

Day one.

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omggg first chapter of this story is up i couslnt be more excitedddd