Sorry.

Just a random thing I felt like writing....I've been really preoccupied by the concept of growing up lately....It seems like the more I think about it, the faster time goes. So I try not to think about it, but that's like trying not to think about something when someone commands you not to. It just doesn't work.

Sorry. She was sorry. Sorry that when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone older than she expected. In her mind's eye, she saw her five-year-old self, puzzled and hurt by the neglect she was showing to the setting world of her childhood.

But it was inevitable. The days--they just slipped, she couldn't help it, they just got away from her, leaked out of her tightly cupped hands. She wanted to find the source, use one hand to stopper time, wherever it began, and use her other hand to reach out to the girl of her past, the girl being left behind, the girl being locked away--alone in a world of magic, vibrant colors, and childish secrets meant to be whispered into attentive ears, not brokenly mumbled into empty air. But she was too far gone, the time was too late.

There once was a time she was sure who she was, when some magic, and dreams, and her faith was enough. There once was a day she hoped she'd become a hero like in the cartoons she'd so devotedly watched, when she thought she'd rise up and unfold her wings. But she grew and changed, the world changed, time was moving, moving along, pushing and nudging her towards new dreams, more realistic and cold hopes, more logical and precise wishes. It nudged so far into cold and rationality that that the dreams, hopes, and wishes soon became "goals"--stony pellets and shells that encased her soft, glittering, childish heart. Goals closed her eyes with exhaustion when years ago she'd spent her nights intently staring at the ceiling sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars from Toys-R-Us. Back then, the ceiling had been the whole galaxy and beyond.

Sorry. She was so sorry. Sorry to her reflection, sorry for hating that awkward girl in the mirror. Sorry to the past, sorry for locking it away. And sorry to herself, because she was stuck, in between. Between the child who had to be forgotten in order to survive the new obstacles time brought, and the adult she feared becoming--the adult who embodied dullness, faithlessness, and utter cynicism.

You don't know me.

Something just occurred to me, and I wanted to get it down.

Do most people feel as if their parents know them? While I've been doing college application essays, and other people have been doing the same, I feel like that issue has been coming up a lot....

At first, I wrote an essay that I thought would turn out well...I sat down and said, I"M WRITING MY COLLEGE ESSAY....STARTING NOW. My mom read it and hated it. She was like, it doesn't sound like you.

I must admit, I ended up agreeing with her, but at first I got super pissed about it and it ended up being a two-week long argument. She said my essay was too negative, dark, and unappealing. I responded by saying, "Well clearly you don't know me then. But I know myself, and I know I'm in this essay, and if you don't like me this way, that's too bad." But she won the argument, and I edited the essay over, and over, and over again to make it "positive" until I realized I'd edited myself out completely, and I was trying to write in the voice of a stranger. The idea I'd had, the idea I'd been enthusiastic about for months, the idea I'd anticipated writing eagerly, became ugly, and later I couldn't stand it.

So I scrapped it, eventually. And I was super upset, so I was writing about how I was upset about that....and then that became my new college essay.....@_@ super circular and ironic. And after that, I wrote two more essays, and as of yet the three essays all feel like me, I think. I hope.

My mom likes these better. But still, there are times when she points at a line and says, THIS ISN"T YOU, and I say HOW WOULD YOU KNOW. This whole back and forth process has been stressing me out. It made me wonder if I was abnormal or unreasonable, if I was the only one having these huge arguments.

But then I heard a lot of people talking about the same things, and it made me think that the college essay really is a sort of pressure cooker. People get pushed by everyone else on all sides--do this, do that, take that out, I don't like this, you should be that. So it's critical to truthful, good writing to be honest to yourself. Follow intuition. If it feels wrong for you, it's because it is wrong for you. It doesn't matter if you don't know exactly, explicitly, precisely who you are. Somehow, if there's something that clicks, even if you don't know what, you should follow through with it. An essay about yourself should be something that you can smile about, not something that you hate. It should be something easy to write, not something that you worry about or something that makes you feel insecure.

People don't, people can't, know all about you. People can't know all about me. The writer needs to take control, because they're the only ones who can easily, naturally, beautifully lay themselves out on the paper.

Heffalumps and Woozles.

I was having a conversation with David Cannon about Halloween, which turned into a conversation about Pooh Bear.

And then i got a link to a video that forever changed my perspective on pooh bear. And Heffalumps and Woozles, for that matter.



...I don't remember Winnie the Pooh being this scary. I wonder if I never noticed because at the time I was five. I watched a Sailor Moon episode and realized all of the bad guys are complete creepers, too.

How do children not notice such creepy things? Maybe my mind has just been corrupted.

I also worry and wonder who made this video.

Nevertheless, I think I can forgive the Pooh Bear team for this mind-freak, Pooh Bear's still awesome because I still have a million Pooh Bears attached to my back pack.

Video Games...in My Sleep? AHJDSJLASASJDKL

I don't really like blogging about how life's been going and all that crap, I feel like blogs should be more for like...thoughts? or particular topics that's the central focus of the whollllllle blog, but what do I know? Also, i'm a hypocrite. And if you tell me you're not, you're a hypocrite too....(ummm that sounds circular...but I hope that made sense).

Anyways, I realized how sadly college has already been eating my life from a dream I had last night!

Warning: I have weird dreams.

I've been really interested in the concept of lucid dreaming lately. This link basically lays out the gist of what lucid dreaming is, and how people practice it! I really want to be able to dream lucidly....it kinda makes me feel like...I'd be playing a video game, except I'd be IN THE VIDEOGAME.....IN MY SLEEP. People can do whatever they imagine in lucid dreams, the sky's the limit!...literally. If you want to fly, you can fly, instantly. Because you're aware that you're dreaming, and you can control everything you want, however much you want.

...Maybe it's unrealistic that I'm hoping to use lucid dreaming to do the impossible.

Too bad.

So...I've been practicing strategies to lucid dream. Basically, this consists of me spending random moments of the day feeling stupid while I look at a wall and try to change it's color with the force of my mind. It's like using a totem in Inception, just less cool. If the wall changes color, OMG YOU'RE ACTUALLY DREAMING AND NOW YOU KNOW. If the wall doesn't change color, you should stop. You're awake, and looking at the wall with so much focus makes you look like a dork.

~So if this becomes a habit, it increases the chance that you'll look at a wall while you're asleep/dreaming and that you'll try to change it's color while you're asleep. Which is what I did last night!!! and the wall REALLY changed color from yellow to green and purple and I freaked out in my sleep, because I realized I was dreaminggggg.

Apparently people unpracticed in lucid dreaming are super stupid when they're dreaming. In my dream, my mom, who has been yelling at me about college apps for what feels like forever (why so azn, mom?), was STILL YELLING at me about them. SO then, my brilliant dream-self reasoned that since my mom was still freaking about college apps, and not being nice or letting me do whatever (aka play video games, watch TV, fly, walk on the walls, etc), I was actually AWAKE. Yes, I convinced myself that somehow, even though the wall just changed color, my mother's anger proved that I'd been imagining the color change, and that I was actually awake. So I literally forgot that I was dreaming. T_T

My dreams SUCK.

They're either completely lame and boring, or I'm always being chased by zombies and trying to kill them with a black baseball bat I got in second grade that I keep in my closet. And then the zombies come attack me and overwhelm me, and I die, because my mom's too busy cooking the rice or calculating taxes or rearranging the furniture to help me.

...why does this happen?!?! I must say I really, really hope dreams are NOT a reflection of a person's life at all....

Assigned Blog Post #6: You should keep on blogging :)

I've really gotten to love this blogging thing....at first, it was hard to start writing, but the internet really does make it easier for people to express themselves, although, they actually SHOULD be expressing themselves all the more in real life :)

Sometimes, I write, and I just know I'm not getting anywhere. I forget what I'm even writing about, and the post bugs me because I just know there wasn't any heart or real care in it. It becomes internet junk, it's just there to take up space and waste words. Other times, I get frustrated because I write so much slower than I think, and I might post two, three, FOUR posts a day....so I'm really jealous of the super consistent writers I've seen while blog surfing. And so many people seem to have only good blog posts. Each post is so carefully measured out and pristine, they capture something special, each post becomes precious, so I really enjoy reading every single one of their posts.

In particular, I've really liked this blog, it's practically my favorite. I think I especially liked it because not only is the writing unique, but I also think I see a new side of the author I didn't expect!! My favorite part of the blogs is when I read a blog and I'm surprised to see who the author is, and they become all the more awesome and interesting to get to know :).
The blog I linked has a lot of interesting details, a lot of the writing assignments, as well as pictures and opinions posted for fun. Super cool.

So yeah! I'm glad that these blogs were assigned, and I really (unrealistically) wish everyone kept blogging after this class was over. It's amazing to see all these snippets of people you thought you knew--to find that they're actually so much more.

I wish I played videogames.....

....Just saying.

I REALLY WANT TO PLAY TWILIGHT PRINCESS WTF

I noticed over the last few days I'm an incredible dork. I was listening....to the sound track of Twilight Princess because I want that to be the first video game I play!!! And I liked the music a lot.....I think it's because it just gets me in a positive mood, and makes me feel like I'm in the video game, almost.....dorky, I know. But a lot of the time, I love video games, or cartoons, or books, and stories because it gets me out of my life and into a whole new world. Because that's the point of a lot of fantasy, right? It's a good reliever of stress, and gives people a time to just imagine, and be in an ideal world, where they can have ridiculous powers, or be able to believe in magic, or do things they wouldn't be able to achieve in real life...and when I draw, or write random things, it's kind of the same thing...because I make up a whole 'nother place in my head, right?

So I think videogame graphics, or cartoons, etc can be really counted as a true form of art.... For a long time, I kind of looked down on art as an idea. It didn't really compare, I thought, with being something like a doctor. While doctors saved people's lives, artists just made pretty pictures. But that's so incorrect...art is what happens when people express their thoughts, and good artists can bring people into their own worlds, and make people believe in what they believe in, love what they love, and see things how they see things. Doctors save lives in the physical sense, but art saves lives in the mental sense, I think.

But there are times when playing games, or watching a cartoon, or looking at fantastical landscapes and whatnot kind of make me sad. It makes me slightly crestfallen when I look at those sorts of things, and then realize that while in the imaginary world people are off taming dragons, and fighting monsters, or whatever, I need to turn back to my desk and finish my AP Stats, Quiz 5.1.

Oh homework. You thrill me -.-

Or I listen to....like, the Sailor Moon theme song, and I get a flood of memories of wanting to be Sailor Moon when I was little. And then I check the time, and it's 3 in the morning. It makes me wonder if people have the time in their lives to live in two separate ways, two separate places--one life in the mind, far, far away, another life right where gravity holds them down, right side up, stuck to solid ground that seems to get...too real sometimes.

And being a child is so much more awesome, when it comes to these things. Children have the wonderful ability, I think, to completely immerse themselves in different worlds. It's so easy to believe things :3. But maybe length of childhood, or the ability for one to control one's childhood doesn't have to be the same for everyone. With practice, consideration, deliberation, and care, it's a skill that can be cultivated over time. Growing up doesn't mean you need to forget how to believe in ridiculous things, even if it's just for a little while.

Flashing Back

Flashbacks are weird things. Weird, but cool. And yes, the combination is possible. They sorta-kinda get me thinking about the flashbacks that occur for people in real life....whereas flashbacks in writing are usually for stylistic and informative reasons, how and why do people get flashbacks in their daily lives? Sometimes, I can semi-tell if someone is flashbacking....or at least zoned out and thinking super hard about something. I probs do the same thing. My eyes go all out of focus and when I was little my mom would interrupt to tell me to shut my mouth while I'm thinking. I want to know what triggers such long chains of thought, and why I get grumpy when I have to bring my mind back to focus. Once I start thinking it gets annoying to switch off of that chain of thought, and my mind feels all weird and disoriented...maybe that's just me.....T_T

ANYWAYS those sorts of chains of thought seem to be really linked to flashbacks, I think, or a sense of nostalgia, of retracing something from before. Like when I reread a book (Harry Potter! Ender's Game!) or something....which is possibly why people get more out of rereading books...I think.

I'm going to quit writing. I was thinking about this for a while, and now i've COMPLETELY lost track of what I'm talking about. this is a problem.

Swimmer Flashback:

He reeled back from the sight of the mansion’s emptiness and staggered back down across the driveway and lay himself down on the great expanse of rough, cold concrete. While he lay still, his eyes flickered in every direction as hidden memories flooded his mind.

He stood away, backed from the mansion, as the movers hauled out his tagged furniture. Hard lines gripped his face as he looked around and saw the red price tags everywhere, on everything, everything he no longer owned. He had gotten a phone call that morning from the bank, and when they told him they had taken over his property, he’d slopped his claret of Russian icewine onto his crisp designer shirt. He sighed. Well, there was no time for it now. It was already afternoon, and the movers refused to let him back into the house. He busied himself with drinking as much of his best wine as he could without inebriating himself to the point of passing out. He began to feel woozy, and he barely registered that Lucinda’s shoulder was what was holding him up, and that somewhere in the background one of his daughters was sniffling loudly.

After all the furniture was moved out, the bank representative came over and held his hand out for the keys to the mansion.

Neddy just stared back at him with bleary eyes.

“I can’t give you the keys,” he slurred, “where’s my family supposed to go? You’ve taken my business and my furniture; I can’t give you the house.”

“Sorry, but your business isn’t worth a dime. You’ve got to pay it all back somehow.” The representative gently loosened the keys from his hand, bowed politely to his wife, and walked away.

Neddy turned back to his wife and children. His youngest was still sniveling and wiping her nose.

“Where do we go now?” he asked them. He was lost, reduced to a child, no longer the laughing, confident man in the crisp dress shirt, holding his champagne steadily, firmly.

That night was spent at the Westerhazys’. The next night, at the Halloran’s. Then, the Grahams’, the Bunkers’, the Crosscups’, the Sachs’, Biswangers’, Gilmartins’, and the Clydes—each in rotation, throughout the neighborhood. Eventually, Lucinda had approached him, when they were staying at the Levys’.

“Neddy, dear, I don’t think we can keep this up. We need to find somewhere to stay for a while. You need to work.”

They didn’t, he’d insisted. Their neighbors loved them. They’d be able to stay as long as they needed, and once he got his business back, he’d repay them. Besides, he couldn’t work, he refused to work. Once he started such work, he’d no longer been the right set, and then, they wouldn’t be able to get any help from the neighbors at all.

The officers had found his wife the next morning, mangled body on the side of the highway, twisted from the force of falling such a long way from the bridge above. He was deemed unsuitable for taking care of his daughters, and they’d been moved to a foster home. Somewhere. Far away. He didn’t know exactly where.

Suddenly, Neddy opened his eyes. He’d been dozing on the cement, but it was getting late, and his body was losing valuable heat. Getting up from his cramped position, he shuffled stiffly off. Perhaps the Welchers would house him tonight.