A memory

It was a foggy Sunday morning and it was very cold. My pink Barbie watch read 6:43 AM. Despite the fact that I cried the night before, my eyes glistened with so much pride because I was only seven years old and this was my very first sleepover with my older cousins. They were the elites- the esoteric group of young pre-teens that I deeply admired. My older cousins multiplied bigger numbers, spelled longer words and no longer wore pajamas. It was a privilege to have a sleepover with them, and I was proud.

Mornings always made me happy despite whatever, but this kind of morning was different. We decided to ditch breakfast and we raced for the park. Above us, a haze of yellow quickly loomed over a purple sky. Below us, the sound of our slippers against the pavement became our music and it echoed around a dozing neighborhood. 

The park was empty when we arrived and we were grateful. This was our kingdom, our headquarters, our mysterious lair, our treehouse and our secret hide out. We played until we found the longest hose I'd ever seen in my entire life. My older cousins gestured me to help them hoist it inside the jungle gym and we let the water trickle down the slides.

I remember laughs, a few races, a bit of sensation and an upset policeman. "We're in mighty trouble." I said. And because one of my cousins nodded hastily in agreement, I repeated what I said about three times. 

The rest is gone. What makes it all worse is that my older cousins don't really remember. Sometimes they nod along with me when I try to tell them the story over and over again - but behind their nods is uncertainty.

Up until after I see the water racing down the slides from the hose and the smug look on my cousins' faces, I can't help but smile. You see, it keeps me thinking--contemplating, even-- that despite the fact that my cousins don't remember, they will always be there. In that memory

I know that behind the algebra equations that I stress and write about on blackboards, behind chick flicks, a heavy school bag and lots of paperwork...behind the glasses, the books and even behind the superficiality, there is STILL a girl. A very young girl with a pink Barbie watch, teddy bear pajamas and loud slipper sounds that clapped and echoed step after step. I can't wait to meet her again. Somehow, someday.

thoughts for april

I fear two things. I fear that time will run out. I want to read twenty more books, I want to be able to make something, to say something or to write something and I always just fear that I'm not going to have enough time to do that.

I never believed that sticking to a routine was a bad decision to make, in fact, I think it's the safest one. Steering clear from the edges of my safety zone always kept me away from the evident, bitter taste of FEAR: fear of the unknown, fear of taking the fall when I knew I didn't have to if I didn't try, fear of having to LEARN from my mistakes the HARD way. I wanted to avoid that. I fear that.

Throughout April, I've learned two things. Stepping out of my comfort zone is always, always going to bring overwhelming results. It may be bad or good and that's the thing. You never really know. But all selfishness, fear of pain, fear of learning - all of that aside, the results will be worth it. And what's life without worth? I've learned the beauty of productivity and maximizing my time. I've learned the essence of keeping myself busy, tuned and wired for the present. After all, my life is what I make it. This very month was what I chose to make it. Next month is going to be what I make it. I have no more time for the past!

But I will have to admit. Sometimes I DO like to be nostalgic, especially when times are tough. Sometimes I DO think WAY too much about the past. Let me tell you something: the past is a truly self-inflicting and harmful place to live in. It is the painful truth, for it can be a deceivingly beautiful place to look at and admire from far away.

Goodbye April, Hello May!

Does it ever get to you that

I can't let pain act as a deterrent for life. I'll admit, I love people and their stories but there are times when people wear me out. Who am I to talk? I'm just some fifteen year old who's probably having a bad day. But do you ever think about how some people just really know how to sink into your skin and rummage through thoughts and feelings that make you want to scream? The sad thing is that sometimes they don't even know it, but the infuriating fact is that sometimes they actually do and it's this thing that tests my backbone and i'm forced into friendships and forced into words that i don't mean. It's crazy. It's crazy what people like me can do. It's crazy how we think. STILL, life is what I make it. Amidst all this, there are good days waiting to be lived and there are good memories waiting to be experienced. April's going to be a good one.