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.

Just Because

I'm tired. Sometimes I feel like I get so caught up in the "daily-routine-of-the-average-teenager" that I'm not really quite alive. So I think I'll just take some time to blog. Not blogging for homework, or blogging for class stuff. Just blogging, just talking. Just because.

Mentioning the whole every-day-routine deal in the previous paragraph made me think of something. To a certain extent, the "daily-routine" sort of freaks me out. It insights a sort of fear, and when I think about it for too long, I can actually feel my heart rate go up and my lungs start to hyperventilate. hm....I need a name for the thing I'm going to talk about next. So here goes:

The Daily-Routine-Factor. The Daily-Routine-Factor is the part of one's life that makes it like any other day. It might be good, it might be boring.

For me, it is terrifyingly boring. I think this is sort of at the heart of me not wanting to grow up. When I see adults, working from 9 to 5, with wayyyy less vacation time and wayyyy more stress, it makes me wonder. Is life this way for everyone? Is this the way life needs to be run? It seems like people spend the prime of their lives so they can spend the last few in satisfaction. But shouldn't there be another way to live, a way where not only the retirement years are enjoyable, but also the working years?

I guess the answer is yes, there is a way, but it's highly unlikely for anyone to be completely satisfied. So this really gets to an issue that's been on my mind since last year. Science or art?
Both things I enjoy, to some extent, both with their benefits and faults.

I can understand Science. In science, I think there's less of a risk, it's just about guaranteed you can find yourself an educated steady income in medicine. Research helps people. Science has a defined answer. You're right or your wrong. No uncertainty.

I can also, on the other hand, understand art. Art is risky, though. No certainty, 'cause it's based upon opinion, right? An artist puts him or herself onto a blank canvas, people look at the artist, splattered across the medium, and reach a decision. Art is subject to gaping, praising, disagreeing, burning, vandalizing, copying, inspiring, adoring, hoping, dreaming. But I'm drawn to art. Although pursuing art would probably make me worried about having to live on the streets and whatnot, over the years, I've found art to be increasingly amazing!!! Art's not just drawing, or painting, I think. It's writing, photographing, sculpting, doodling, sketching, folding origami, scribbling letters. It's creating, and creating is a powerful thing. You take an object, hold an idea in your mind, and try to inject the idea into the object to the best of your ability. You place a teeny weeny bit of your soul into each piece, and then the piece has a life of its own.

I think I really want a life that is open to constant change--always something new to look forward too, an adventure. But I also want to be able to fight for something that will help other people--cures to diseases, research on maintaining better health. Maybe somewhere the two overlap. I hope so.