I gave her to hold in her awkward fist the scepter of my passion.
Teenage reflection time!
It seems that my life drastically changed once I started writing in pencil. Perhaps not so much changed, just shifted into a gear slightly less intense than the one I had been operating under a few months ago. Maybe it happened when I realized a number could actually be placed on the remaining amount of days in the school year. That the that the dwindling, waning, deflating, shriveling, evaporating amount of my junior year will be gone forever...leaves me feeling exhaustedly relieved, feverishly anxious, and irritatingly nostalgic. I just want to take a detour from the necessary normalities and formalities of the end of the year, I feel that I have no brain capacity to complete the ridiculously large amount of final projects, or study for my final exams. I wish that I could stop caring so much about school, because when I work hard and get good grades...I always try to justify them by saying 'Well, I'm taking really easy classes.' I'm sick of the mentality that undermines my hardwork, and I wish that work wouldn't go unappreciated, especially by me. I only hope that next year my mindset on grades isn't this absurdly warped...that an A- won't equate to a life time working minimum wage. I hope that next year will be more about knowledge, and less about how well my name is complimented by black and white accomplishments. But I know it won't be, as insatiable my thirst for knowledge is, I know that I will never let myself fully appreciate what I'm learning...that I will always be preoccupied by the ends, completely disregarding the means.
I wish I could let myself enjoy this Nabokov project, I wish that I could project the way his words arrest my heart, hault my breathing, and burrow deep into memory banks. But I know that my paper won't be like that, it'll be an overgeneralizing piece of shit that will magically get an A. I love him too much to deface his writing like I will.
I wish I could be bothered by the fact that nothing will ever become of me as a writer (I can see those exact words being printed on one of my future book sleves, or tombstone--I can thank my flickering, suffocating belief in my potential, entombed and clawing, talent as a writer...which I am somehow aware of, but helpless to release) What would I write about anyway? Fiction? Non-fiction? I hate the idea of people spending so much of their lives watching the shadows of reality, never once standing before the sun's embracing rays to cast influences of their own. But I think that writing leads people out of their caves and into the temporarily blinding reality of life. Writing can comfort someone scorched by the blunt harshness of the rays by providing pre-packaged empathy. The power of writing can be broken down into more than just an extention of The Allegory of the Cave...and its power is so daunting that I have decided to, at the tender age of sixteen, step away from its intimidation. At least for now.
There are just so many things that I want to accomplish, to understand, to learn, to accept...there are so many things that I wish I had the patience for, and had a good enough character to appreciate.
This is probably the least optimistic entry I've ever/will ever write. I'd like to thank the blunt indication of my intellegence, kindly provided by the good people of the ACT commission or whatever they prefer call themselves. I wish I could appreciate instead of wish.
It seems that my life drastically changed once I started writing in pencil. Perhaps not so much changed, just shifted into a gear slightly less intense than the one I had been operating under a few months ago. Maybe it happened when I realized a number could actually be placed on the remaining amount of days in the school year. That the that the dwindling, waning, deflating, shriveling, evaporating amount of my junior year will be gone forever...leaves me feeling exhaustedly relieved, feverishly anxious, and irritatingly nostalgic. I just want to take a detour from the necessary normalities and formalities of the end of the year, I feel that I have no brain capacity to complete the ridiculously large amount of final projects, or study for my final exams. I wish that I could stop caring so much about school, because when I work hard and get good grades...I always try to justify them by saying 'Well, I'm taking really easy classes.' I'm sick of the mentality that undermines my hardwork, and I wish that work wouldn't go unappreciated, especially by me. I only hope that next year my mindset on grades isn't this absurdly warped...that an A- won't equate to a life time working minimum wage. I hope that next year will be more about knowledge, and less about how well my name is complimented by black and white accomplishments. But I know it won't be, as insatiable my thirst for knowledge is, I know that I will never let myself fully appreciate what I'm learning...that I will always be preoccupied by the ends, completely disregarding the means.
I wish I could let myself enjoy this Nabokov project, I wish that I could project the way his words arrest my heart, hault my breathing, and burrow deep into memory banks. But I know that my paper won't be like that, it'll be an overgeneralizing piece of shit that will magically get an A. I love him too much to deface his writing like I will.
I wish I could be bothered by the fact that nothing will ever become of me as a writer (I can see those exact words being printed on one of my future book sleves, or tombstone--I can thank my flickering, suffocating belief in my potential, entombed and clawing, talent as a writer...which I am somehow aware of, but helpless to release) What would I write about anyway? Fiction? Non-fiction? I hate the idea of people spending so much of their lives watching the shadows of reality, never once standing before the sun's embracing rays to cast influences of their own. But I think that writing leads people out of their caves and into the temporarily blinding reality of life. Writing can comfort someone scorched by the blunt harshness of the rays by providing pre-packaged empathy. The power of writing can be broken down into more than just an extention of The Allegory of the Cave...and its power is so daunting that I have decided to, at the tender age of sixteen, step away from its intimidation. At least for now.
There are just so many things that I want to accomplish, to understand, to learn, to accept...there are so many things that I wish I had the patience for, and had a good enough character to appreciate.
This is probably the least optimistic entry I've ever/will ever write. I'd like to thank the blunt indication of my intellegence, kindly provided by the good people of the ACT commission or whatever they prefer call themselves. I wish I could appreciate instead of wish.