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.

I should be doing Chemistry.

I should be doing chemistry. But LOOK WHAT I'M DOING INSTEADDDD

I keep on thinking of things to write about. And then I keep on forgetting what they are.

I really hate forgetting things.

It's the main problem I have when I journal. while i'm writing furiously, I forget the things I meant to say. Especially because i handwrite the entries. Although the Internet is amazing and wonderful, I really DO think there's something magical about handwritten things. Not only is the content meaningful, but the handwriting makes the writing a visual art form also. While people generally maintain a consistent handwriting, it still changes slightly depending on a person's mood or condition. I think that sort of element in reading something adds a whole new dimension. Which is why I love writing letters. Is the handwriting sharp, or round? Does it run perfectly straight across the page, or slant downwards or wobble up and down along the printed lines? Where did the writer mess up? why are things scratched out? What did the writer mean to say? It's all in there, for handwritten letters.

Getting a handwritten letter makes me think of the sender, writing at there desk, scratching things out, or drawing doodles along the sides. And then I realize that there are other people who like handwritten letters for the same reason as I do--the heart and effort that goes in--and the world feels a little less lonely and little more hospitable.

So the price for all that is my ideas. Ideas!!!DSA:FA:L I think of them in the most inconvenient places. and I have nowhere and no time to write them when I'm walking to class during passing period, or in the car, or crossing the street (I should hope not for the last one). So I repeat the idea, over and over in my head until the idea loses its original charm and I get distracted. Then the idea never hits the paper. It never stabilizes. It's gone, and the thought that something can be blasted into oblivion like that, wasted, sorta creeps me out and makes me frustrated when it happens.

I had other things to write about after this.

But guess what, I've forgotten them already.