The elastic heart of youth.

While summer's song is still four glorious weeks longer, its movement in me has already taken effect.
In other words, while summer isn't over yet, I already feel the weight of the change it has had on me -
the different direction the elastic heart of mine has taken since the dawning of the season.

This summer has been more fulfilling than any other of the fifteen summers I've experienced.
This summer I breathed -
I took a week off of school and work and projects, and even art, and pronounced myself queen couch potato and claimed my spot directly in front of the tv (I have since become an expert on virtually every trash tv show you can think of!)
I went to a college program for dance, the UCLA Summer Dance Intensive program -
A week dedicated to dance, and earning credits for college at the same time? Call me awesome. What I didn't expect was to become a part of a new family of 45 people, and gain as much insight about dance, people, and myself as I did that week.
A few days later I was off to another college program, but this time for visual art - my true passion.
I packed four suitcases (no joke!) and headed off to OTIS in L.A. where I spent a month with two roommates and a Residential Assistant in an apartment across the street from the campus at OTIS' Summer of Art program.
I took two classes, graphic design and drawing, and I learned more than I thought I bargained for! We worked long hours into the night, prepping for critiques, scrambling to finish that last bit of shading, and busting our brains thinking up innovative concepts for design. It was physically and mentally draining, but in the end, we had a huge exhibition and the end products ended up being well worth the time and energy. (Not to mention, several great portfolio pieces came out of it, and I now have 3 guaranteed teacher-recommendations for college applications!)

And since the start of summer...
I started a daily exercise routine (and even lost a couple pounds!),
I finally got over the crush I had in freshman year (LOL, we're talking the pretty cliche high school deal),
my favorite color changed drastically from purple to mint green,
my parents bought me a NikonD5000 for my birthday and a shitload of new art supplies <3,
I've developed a growing passion and interest in outer space, stars, astronauts, galaxies, nebulas, black holes, and the universe,
I actually read books for pleasure (not for Cordero!),
I let go of the one-way friendships I was half involved in (not everyone will love you the way you love them!),
I realized that NOT being section leader is NOT a big deal (band is a pimp - I'm fine being ONE of the ho's <3)
I made a lot of money selling stuff and recycling, and got to buy a shitload of clothes and music in return (WOO for instant gratification),
I finally got my hair cut the way I wanted (just today haha!)
and I drew/painted/clicked/wrote/thought/mailed/spoke every drawing/painting/photo/poem/idea/letter/word that came into my mind.

I guess a lot of people might say I've changed this summer.
For the worse, or for the better.
But I also believe that a lot of people have difficulty with change (I'm a huge victim of this lol)
So instead I like to think that it's not that I'm changing this summer -

I'm just growing up.



"The elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time"
-Mark Twain

Section Leader.

It's that time of year again.
The week after band three auditions.
The week people are still buzzing with energy and people are frantically searching Mr. Landes' face for clues about whether they've made it or not.
It's also the week a new buzz begins.
The buzz about leaders.
Section leaders.
It's the time of year when people make that decision and try out for section leader - all of which really depends on your performance over the last few seasons, your attitude, your letter to Mr. Landes, and what kind of impression you've made on the big guys on campus; i.e. Mr. Landes, Mr. Sherrill, your upperclassmen, your peers, your section, and your section leaders.
Today I logged onto my computer with the intent of printing out my section leader letter for this year, and came across another document.
It was entitled "Dear Mr. Landes - 2009"
My letter from last year.
I thought twice about opening the file - did I really want to let my last year's thoughts affect me this year?
Did I want to remember that bitter disappointment I felt when my name wasn't on that list?
Wait.
This was the wrong train of thought.
It shouldn't matter. If anything, I should be encouraged by the fact that my passion this year is as burning and crazy as last year, if not more so.
In fact, I think it's grown.
I double clicked.
And what I read next was surprising.
It was almost like my freshmen-self gave my current sophomore-self that extra energy and extra confidence I didn't know I needed right now. Despite the somewhat bad writing, I feel like my old self taught my present self something I might have forgotten.
This is what it said:

"Dear Mr. Landes,
I have always been a band geek. Since the first time I held a delicate, charming saxophone, struggling to stretch my fingers across the wide-spread keys, I knew I had to play one. Because of my small piano background, I managed to quickly grasp the notes and learn my major scales. That year I hungered for music like nothing else - sheet music, music scribbled on scraps of paper - everything - and happily devoured any I could get my hands on. Three years later, I was part of the Foothills Marching Band. I discovered there was more to band than music - there was marching - and I enjoyed my two years of marching band there immensely.
However, no amount of practice, devotion, or energy could have prepared me for this year. With the help of my section leaders, peers, and fellow band members, I learned there was even more to band than music, and definitely more than marching - there was soul. There was tradition, passion, and the most charismatic people I could ever have hoped to meet. My eyes were instantly opened to new friends, new role-models, new opportunities, and the chance to belong to a life-changing organization, a team, and a family.
"Band will change you," he said, "It will make you a better person." I'll never forget those words Allen Yang spoke during summer sectionals. I was skeptical, but at the same time curious - I loved band, but how could this guy speak about it with sparkling eyes? That was real passion. But a handful of drill downs, some night rehearsals, and a field show later, I found myself in the exact same position as he had been in. I found myself endlessly obsessing over our band's effort, our mistakes, and our triumphs. I found myself subconsciously keeping in step with strangers in the hallways, and humming "Hempispheres" to myself. And I found myself preaching to my peers about my ideas, observations, and even frustrations band had inspired in me.
So although I'm a freshman, and I've only been here at Arcadia High for one year, one marching season, I sincerely believe I can help carry the tradition of excellence our band takes pride in. I know I can - and will - reach out to the incoming freshmen like my section leaders did to me and my peers. And while I'll be the first to admit I'm no Kenny G, and I'm no Miriam when it comes to push-ups, I know I have what it takes to be a great leader and role model of music, marching, and attitude. However, if a person other than me seems to be better suited for the position, I will happily oblige to call him or her my section leader, because I really do want what is best for this band. But I can honestly say in my heart and mind, I earnestly believe I am that person.
If you give me this chance, I'll prove to you I really love this band, more than words, and I'll do anything and everything to keep it one of the best in both performance and enthusiasm - whatever it takes.

Yours for three more years,
Jenny Earnest (a.k.a. Alto Sax Girl Who Sits in the Middle)."

(Haha, I remember using that phrase, "Alto Sax Girl Who Sits in the Middle" to identify myself once when Mr. Landes prompted me with the question, "who are you?"
What he meant was "Are you Mr. Earnest's relation?"
He knew a teacher named Mr. Earnest, and as there aren't exactly a million people with the name Earnest, he must have figured we were related.)

Anyway, the point is I realized something last year that I almost lost sight of this year.
What's best for the band.
That's the ultimate goal here.
I may think I'm what's best for my section, but obviously, I have a huge bias.
It's difficult to put yourself in another person's shoes when your eyes are blinded by passion.
And I guess this year I'm realizing that passion is what sets me apart - and that can be both a really great thing, as well as a setback.
This year and last year I did everything possible to prove myself as a qualified leader.
But it's out of my hands right now, so I'll continue to strive for excellence, but I'll try to let it go where it needs to.
I want this to be my year.
I'm really feeling it.
But if it isn't, next year will be my year.
And if for some reason, it's never meant to be, then I'll find solace in the fact that I led without the title "Section Leader" for four years.
A title doesn't qualify one to lead.
Nor does it come with a side of respect and command.
That's something you have to earn.
And if lack of recognition is all it amounts to, it's perfectly fine.
One shouldn't aim to be a martyr.
I feel it's better to live honorably than to die honorably anyway.
I would recognize the nameless soldier in the front line of fire, standing with his men, before the general shouting commands from afar anyday.

But anyway.
I'm getting carried away.
So I'll part with a final thought;
Someone extremely inspirational once told me that we are chosen not because we are qualified, rather, we qualify by being chosen.
I need to think about this statement.
I'll get back to you.

Iambic pentameter and the Mona Lisa.

I am sitting at my desk currently, in complete silence.
I can feel the white light from the computer screen being reflected across my face.
I've been sitting here for a few hours, which have thus far equated to 11 empty juice boxes, a tv dinner, and enough time to remove my nail polish and watch some trash television.
And I think the combination of time, the urgency to type something up, and the past few weeks of poetry-studying in English has me feeling pretty crazy.
I can honestly say I have to stop and correct my sentences, or even thoughts sometimes because I'm thinking in iambic pentameter.
I know.
What the hell.
Earlier this month it took me a while to write a decent sonnet because iambic pentameter is a real hole in the head, and now
I can't not write sonnets.
I almost wrote my personal statement for my application to INNERSPARK's creative writing program in 10 syllabic lines with 5 pairs of unstressed and stressed syllables.
It's like, I have writer's block for everything except poetry recently.
Which is pretty awesome considering I want to publish some before I go to college (just to say I'm a published poet, haha).
BUT there is a time and place for everything, and art program applications is not exactly the time nor place in regards to specific assignments.
I finally wrote it in plain English though.
But I don't think I used a single SAT word, and I used like, a lot of slang-sounding things lol.
I don't think my thoughts are organized in the least.
I don't think I even answered the prompt to be honest.
And I went well over the 200 word limit.
(But seriously, 200 words is ridiculous if you're asking for a personal statement. A personal statement should really be an essay. It's not literally a statement. Writing a personal statement for an application in 200 words is like painting the Mona Lisa in 20 minutes....Okay well maybe not that extreme. And honestly, the Mona Lisa is so freaking overrated. The only reason why it could possibly be the most famous painting in the world is if people like to look at extremely ancient man-ladies. Yeah, I called the Mona Lisa a man-lady. Cause either that was one coyote-ugly woman, or Whistler's mom was a man. Damn, the world is messed up.)

LOL, these people (the application readers) are going to hate me.
I'm breaking all their precious rules.
But whatever.
I'm not gonna compress my innerself to suit their ridiculously specific application requirements.
Anyway, this is the crappy-ass 258-word personal statement I came up with, brought on by my intense writer's block:

"Looking for the Pieces

When I first read the prompt for this assignment, I admit I was confident. I remember thinking a personal statement was not a particularly difficult piece of writing to crank out, and should thus be simple, straightfoward - thirty minutes tops, plus ten minutes of light editing. As I sat down at my computer to begin brainstorming however, my perspective gradually altered until two hours had gone by and the opened word document remained "Untitled" and utterly blank. I was hung up on one part of the prompt which said to include "the names of [my] favorite writers and why [I] admire them." I love many books, many authors, but I do not have a favorite - much less favorites. Inexplicably, this seemingly insignificant detail became an extremely overwhelming obstacle for me in regards to the writing process. I could not get over the fact that I wanted to potentially pursue creative writing as a career and neglected to have a favorite author. In the midst of my desperation to label an author as my one-and-only however, I realized there really was no need. I did not have to subject myself to one style, one author. I decided instead, that it was fine to not know yet. I have not read every good book out there. Not every amazing author is published. And at 15, I am still piecing my life's puzzle together. So I guess through this Innerspark program, I am hoping to find just that - one or two more pieces to the puzzle."

Rereading this, I know it sucks cow balls.
(Okay, that was a stupid thing to say. Only bulls have balls.)
But for some reason it was the only really hard thing to write, and it was the shortest requirement, and I thought it would be the easiest.
This was the first assignment but I saved it for last.
Hopefully the board isn't going to nix me after reading just this, LOL.
The other requirements were things like POEMS (yeah, I know I'mma rip their hearts out there), paragraph blocks of emotions like relief, anger, and fear, memories/accounts, and a bunch of other goodies like that.
Yeah. I have until the 27th of this month to come up with a better "personal statement" or to just send this f*ck in.
Until then, I think I'm going to have a LOT of Untitled documents reflecting off my face.

Good riddance.

A FATHER'S LOVE .

This past weekend I went on a retreat to Hemet with my church youth group.
It was mandatory, and I had NO DESIRE to go.
Initially I thought it would be okay, but then they told use we couldn't bring books, textbooks, homework, ipods, games, food, or anything.
And I was like, there is no way I am going to survive in a valley of cactus in the middle of nowhere without my music and all my precious crap -
But somehow, I did.

It turned out to be one of the most enlightening experiences of my life.
I would even venture to say that it was the most enlightening.
Anyway, I can take the time to explain all the things we did another day.
Right now I want to write about something specific that happened in that desert of miracles.
On sunday afternoon, the last day of the retreat, we were all handed big packaging envelopes stuffed to the brim with smaller envelopes - each sealed, containing messages of love from our family and friends back home.
When we opened them, I surprised myself with the emotions that were initiated by the letters - I was choked up to the point of exploding.
I was really embarassed, but as I looked around the room trying to cover my shining tear-stained face, I realized I wasn't the only one.
In fact, there wasn't a single person with dry eyes in that place.
We were all so touched by what our loved ones wrote to us that we bawled tears of joy.
That room was full of emotion.
And I know that was definitely a special experience for me.

Anyway, the letter that got to me the most was written by my dad.
We're pretty much the same person, to be honest.
We have the same taste in music, movies, games, jokes, food - everything.
But as a result, we kind of always end up with too many things to do, and not enough time to sit down and slow it down and talk.
So rarely have we expressed words of love to each other, besides the three word phrase, "I love you".
We just never found the right time, and I guess the more time goes by, the more difficult it gets to tell someone you love them and WHY.
"I love you" means nothing until both people know it's true.
And I guess you can prove it's true through gestures of love, and telling them daily - but to what extent does someone love another?
It's hard to tell someone you love them - but it's harder to say why, or how much, or the things that make "I love you" MEAN something.
So I guess before the retreat, I was used to my dad's awkwardness when it came to expressing his feelings for me.
But then I read his letter.
And I must have read it a million times now.
I can easily say this is the most meaningful piece of language printed on paper I have ever received.
And I'd like to share it with you.
This is what he wrote:

"My Dearest Jenny,
When we were first asked to write this letter, I felt a little trepidation. Not that it is difficult to tell you that I love you, as I try to do that every day and I mean it every time that I say it. No, instead the challenge is in conveying in writing how much I love you for who you are. I'm not sure words can adequately capture how much as a father that I love you as my daughter, but I can certainly start the conversation with this letter.

Although we first met under unusual circumstances, the love that I felt for you has only grown deeper over the years. As you may not recall our first meeting, let me recount it for you. You were crying loudly, probably from the shock of being expelled from the comfort and warmth of Mom's womb, as well as the trauma of natural childbirth. I was crying too, but for another reason, pure joy. The intensity of witnessing the miracle of your birth -- the birth of my daughter -- was overpowering and tears were streaming down my face faster than I could rub them on my sleeve.

You and I would enjoy many other moments of joy as father and daughter as you were growing up. If you ever develop a strong liking for Sinatra ballads, it may be because you and I would dance to Sinatra songs while I sang them in your ear. It never took long to serenade you to sleep and I always enjoyed the dances and especially the hugs. You were very light on your feet!

Watching Oma and Opa play with you also brought me much joy. First, it was heartwarming to see my parents show their unconditional love to my daughter. Second, I felt loved, knowing that they must have showed me similar love and affection when I was young. It was also confirmation of the feelings I have for you -- I love you unconditionally and would do most anything for your wellbeing and happiness. I have no doubt that if you needed a kidney or bone marrow, I would gladly give it to you. I would make these sacrifices not because I have to, but because I would want to.

Of course, it is easy to love you as you are so loveable. If I wasn't your father, I would want to be your best friend. From watching you with your friends, I know that you are a loyal, generous and caring friend. You also have many exciting talents and interests -- music, writing/blogging, arts, photography, etc. Although as your father, I cannot be your friend, I do appreciate the moments when you share your talents and interests with me. I am also happy for other perks as your father, such as family nights. I enjoy your company when we play games, watch movies or just shoot the breeze, and would pick a family night with you over any other social opportunity.

However, as a father, my first responsibility to you as a daughter is to provide you with the necessities of life, safety, and educational opportunities that will allow you to become an independent and contributing adult. As a result, I know there are times where I may seem distant or annoyed from the challenges of life, but you should know that even when I seem less than approachable, I love you for who you are and I am committed to help you on your life's journey.

I expect that you will have some false starts, because ALL people do. However, you should know that you will have my love during trying times and that I will be there for you no matter the problem or the consequences.

Jenny, I hope this note gives you a better understanding of how much I love you as your father and for the special young woman that you are. I am proud and blessed to be your father because you are such a special daughter.

With all my love,
Dad
xoxox"

I know this isn't the mushiest letter,
maybe not even heartwarming to some of you very loved children out there.
But to me, it meant and MEANS the world.
I've read my dad's writing before and never have I seen anything like this.
It's simple, raw, and true.
I love it.
And I love him for writing it.
It really helped me see a side of him I've never known.
Funny, because I've known him longer than anyone aside from my mom.
And I don't think I'll ever fully understand parenting until I become one - much like my dad wrote.
But I do hope if I ever write my child a letter, he or she will appreciate it as much as I do this one.

Emotion is a funny thing.
I'm glad I got the opportunity this past weekend to let it all out of the bottle.

I MISS TOKYO .

(Above - I suddenly remembered this Japanese restaurant I used to go to with my friends all the time, so I drew a rough sketch of it, because I want to remember. It's one of many frozen memories I'm going to snatch back. I think I just found my inspiration for some portfolio pieces! If I can remember enough details, I think I can turn these rough sketches into real paintings, real art).

Today I recieved my Nishimachi International School alumni magazine that they send out every few months. As usual, I flicked through it, reading a couple articles, glancing at the photographs.
And then I stumbled upon my graduating class' picture.
(In Japan, the schools go from K-9th so the transition from 9th to 10th is huge).
To tell you the truth, I was pretty overwhelmed, looking at it.
The boys had gotten so tall - I'm not even sure I would call them "boys" anymore - and the girls were all dolled up in their kimonos and expensive hair ornaments,
everyone standing beneath the cherry trees.
My old teachers were there too, practically unchanged though six years have passed.
Isamu was exactly the same; he was making his pretend-serious face, only, he lost all his baby-fat; he actually looked kind of hot.
Ken looked surprised, as usual - to this day I don't think I've ever seen a picture of Ken actually looking normal; it's like he's always captured with this awkward deer-in-the-headlights kind of expression.
Mai was gorgeous; capturing the spotlight with her ridiculously amazing smile (I was always so jealous).
Momo had on her calm, practiced smile; the one that, even though it's so simple, is probably the prettiest smile I've ever known.
And there were so many familiar faces.
I'm surprised I recognized them without difficulty; it's like time has only made everything clearer.
I think I actually remember everyone's last name now better than I ever did when I saw them daily.

Anyway.
Another recent encounter with Japan was just eight days ago when I went to Disneyland for my dad's birthday.
Lo and behold, while getting on Pirates of the Caribbean, I ran into one of my friends from Japan, Anand.
It was the weirdest thing.
We both kind of looked at each other and he kind of lifted up his hand as to say "hey, I haven't seen you forever, how've you been?" and I lifted mine too, "hey, I miss you guys, it's nice seeing you," and then my boat took off and I didn't see him again.
It's weird how life works.
Though words were not exchanged, I feel like something meaningful was said that day.
Through our eyes and our hearts.

So..yeah.
I really miss Tokyo.
Not even just the people.
I miss everything.
For example, recently, I've even begun craving the smell of cigarette smoke.
I know, it's nasty.
And I'd never, ever, ever smoke.
I promise.
Never.
But when I smell smoke on the streets, I take it in and think, "Ah, it's home."

I also miss the art classes and how Mr. Tanaka would yell his head off at me for not following exact instructions.
I miss the wtf-this-is-a-two-way-street? small ass streets, and the bakery next door to my apartment.
I miss my apartment, Hiroo Towers Apartment 1051 Minami-Azabu, Tokyo, Japan.
I miss my caucasian-hating neighbors and their not-allowed-to-keep-in-the-apartment cat.
I miss my church and the way the pastors would scold you for jay-walking.
I miss waiting 2 hours for pizza during typhoons, and the crickets chirping as-loud-as-hell in the summertime.
I miss flash-light tag at roppongi hills, and 15-people-sleepovers with friends.
I miss being on the ping pong team and getting ejected for hurting some kid's eye with my spikes.
I miss Japanese class and how even though we almost tried not to learn anything, we picked up so much more than we realized.
I miss the "Irasshaimase!"'s the store clerks would always yell, and the tatami-matted restaurants.
I miss the Tokyo American Club and how they tried so hard to make all the foreigners a nice Thanksgiving dinner, and failed miserably.
I miss the you're-gonna-charge-me-30-bucks-to-see-a-fucking-movie? movies with misspelled english subtitles.
I miss laughing at the dirty porno books they sold in the convenience stores and getting kicked out by the manager after making too many photocopies of people's faces.
I miss the feeling of safety, and the ability for 4 year olds to walk the streets at night without danger.
I miss the subways, smelly-as-fuck though they were, and the friendly Nippon Airlines stewards.
I miss Harajuku (Yeah, Gwen Stefani didn't make that up, guys), and the department store that it housed with 100+ photobooths.
I miss making onigiri every thursday to feed to the homeless people, and volunteering at the soup kitchens.
I miss the I-can't-believe-I-just-ate-an-effing-octopus moments when you throw up inside your mouth after finding out what you ate wasn't chicken.
I miss the absence of safety regulations which made the tokyo disneyland rollercoasters huge, hazardous monsters.
I miss the food, the smells, the sights, the music, the movies, the people, the weather, the cars, the early-released video games, the friendships, and the love.

I'm not sure why it took 6 years for me to really miss Japan.
But I can literally feel my pulse pick up now, just thinking about it.
Sometimes I think, maybe it's the Japanese rap I'm listening to.
Or maybe it's Hayao Miyazaki's Pom Poko or the increased visitation of Japanese restaurants?
But I don't know.
Maybe it's a sign.
Or maybe it's the feeling of something missing.
Or maybe it's just life.
And maybe this is just how nostalgia works.

bracelets .

*Be forewarned; this post is kind of metaphorical.

I have a wall that is home to my millions of memories.
Moments put in bottles and captured in photographs.
Letters and cards speckled with special stickers on special stationary, those formal group shots and those last-minute polaroids; all flecked about the room.
Disarray? Or simplicity?
A closer look says "neither".
It's an artful accident.
Art in its best kind - natural, random.
The most beautiful masterpieces, the tastiest ice cream flavors, the purest blue acrylics, all created by accident.
I have a wall that is home to my doodles.
Watercolored waterfalls at the arboretum, chalked outlines of a boy I once knew, penciled doves on the back of another failed math test.
Random? Or wonderful?
A deeper thought says "both".
It's the random events we string together like beads on a bracelet that showcase who we are.
Some people string together hundreds of bracelets by the ends of their roads.
Some people's bracelets are beautiful, flamboyant, even, and some people's are dark; basic shades of gray.
Though most we manage to securely fasten about our hearts, some bracelets get lost in the wind.
Some we find again, and others are lost to us forever.
Some people's are secrets - tucked away from anyone else - and some are sported proudly to the world.
Some bracelets are old and some are new.
But despite the millions of kinds of bracelets, everyone seems to find a way to string some together.
The speed in which we puzzle-piece these tokens together varies.
Some, eager, grasp hold of the string at a young age, and others take decades to realize what memories mean.
Me? I used to think I had quite a few; bracelets, I mean.
I used to imagine I had ten, maybe twenty.
But then one day it struck me, and I realized - I'm still just collecting the beads.

but i AM thinking about the future .

i want to make smart
choices in my life.

Apparently, my parents won't hate me if I fail algebra 2.
They told me so.
They literally sat me down and said, "it's okay if you fail algebra 2, honey".
But want to know a secret?
I don't believe it.
They stopped paying for my art classes, and they're scheduling more tutors for math than I can handle.
I literally have three math tutors, two study groups, and I have mandatory friday cards and teacher meetings.
It's not that I'm ungrateful.
I appreciate the motions they've taken to help me pass math.
But at the same time, I feel like it's not worth the fight.
I feel like it's a lost cause.
It seems like no matter how much extra time I spend doing the mixed reviews and extra practice problems, I end up failing.
I feel like I'm destined to fail.
I'm surprisingly not as hung up on failing a class as you would think.
I learned a long time ago that you can only do your best.
And sometimes your best isn't good enough.
But that's not the problem.
Failing algebra 2, I mean.
The problem is that I spend all this time trying to understand it, trying to pass a single test, JUST ONE, and I end up getting behind in my portfolio.
Is it worth putting the paintbrushes away for a while to get my grade up?
I'm not so sure.
If there's hardly even a chance of me getting a C, then wouldn't it be more time efficient and valuable for me to turn my attention to art?
Everyday I'm either working on math, or regretting spending time on math.
Everyday is the same shade of gray.
And the time I do get to spend painting, I draw blanks.
My paintings are lifeless.

But, I realized something this year.
I realized that I'm lucky - I knew a long time ago what I anticipated to be in the future.
I never had trouble answering the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
I always knew.
I want to be an artist.
I want to be a writer.
I want to be a musician.
I want to be a mom.
I want to be a dreamer.
I want to be successful.
I want to love and be loved.
And the list goes on.
I always knew what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do.
So the question is, why can't I pursue it?
I know I could go somewhere - everyone has that inner potential.
But I want to stop talking about dreams, like everyone else, and go out into the world and fulfill them.
I want to start sending in articles to newspapers again.
I want to participate in those reflection-like contests again.
I want to carry my watercolors with me, and paint spontaneously again.

I just want to do what makes me happy.
I thought that's what our parents told us from the start.
Teachers, and adults in general.
"As long as you're happy, we'll support you."
So is that a meaningful sentiment?
Or are those just empty words?

Because I'm tired of people not meaning what they say.
There's a real lack of sincerity in the world.
If you don't mean it, you might as well tell me what you really mean.
"We tell you you can do anything you want, but we're secretly counting on you to realize your creativity will fail you. You'll eventually become a realist and get a shitty 9-5 desk job like the rest of us. Have a nice life. Hopefully your God-awful grades will get you into a community college".
But you know what?
I'm going to pursue this so-called American dream if it kills me.
So suck it.
Oh yeah.
And C.S. Lewis failed math.
And Lewis is amazing.