I’m not a butterflies-in-the-stomach sentimental-romantic type of girl. When I get crushes, which is rare, I don’t really get nervous. My main reflex is to maybe smile a lot when I’m around someone who gets my heart beating, but that’s a secret just between you and me.
I wouldn’t ask for much. Just a thoughtful gesture now and then.
But I wonder what it would feel like to be in the head over heels, kick me in the balls type of LOVE. There are so many songs dedicated to love and heartache, it must really be something to inspire such insipid descriptions.
Ok, I notice I’m sounding awfully bitter and cynical at this point, but actually all I’m saying is I just don’t UNDERSTAND it all. There was a period where literally every song on the radio related to my life, and every movie plot could have been made up of scenes from my (imaginary) life. Right now, however, love is just a noun.
You’ve lost that love good feeling, the Righteous Brothers once sang. I just hope one day I have it to lose.
I wonder what it’s like to be a bird. It seem like every trapped little girl’s fantasy—to fly over the suburb’s walls and fences caging her in. You know, she wants to spread her wings and all that jazz. But me personally, I actually never gave it much serious thought until I typed out that sentence.
Maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Like in Ella Enchanted, when the fairy turns herself into a squirrel and realizes that a squirrel’s life is not actually like it’s portrayed in Disney movies. The squirrel gets hungry and cold, and carried off by eagles.
In this case, though, I guess it’s the EAGLE you would be. Ha. Still, I can’t imagine it’d be squirrel buffet all the time.
But really, a lot of freedom isn’t necessarily a good thing. There can definitely be too much. Some people like more freedom than others, and maybe I’m the other end of the spectrum that really likes structure. I can’t imagine living life without thinking, elementary school, middle school, high school, college, job. I like having a scheduled place to be every day. Deadlines and assignments, and projects with a finished product. It gives me purpose in a potentially chaotic world. Wondering what I’m going to do on a Saturday night is about as thrilling as it gets.
On that note, it is a bit disconcerting to realize how directionless I currently am. Ideally I would laugh in the face of Disarray and yell “I wouldn’t have it any other way! This is freedom, damn it, and I’m going to enjoy not knowing! I’m awesome and adventurous!” But inside is a secretly growing fear of the unknown.
Because what people fear most is the unknown. Life could be great, but we are hardwired to fear the worst.
So in conclusion, I think it’d be kind of cool to be a bird. It’ll probably help me get over my fear of heights.
We sit here wasting away like mangoes on rotten trees. If someone were to ask you what is your purpose in life, what would you say? For me, all I can muster is a, “I live… to keep living.” But isn’t there something more? Back in high school I thought, OH HO! I have figured it all out, you tricky bastards running the universe. Life is like a race. You work hard to get from check point to checkpoint, and you have these goals in mind… but really all you’re doing is running. Life is a marathon, and the finish line is death.
That’s why people are religious. So they can believe in something greater then themselves, because really what is more depressing than seeing life as one long, exhausting race? Even in races, there are people on the sidelines, offering you tiny Dixie cups of water; but in life, there are rarely handouts, and you definitely can’t count on them to keep you going.
But I’m not feeling particularly negative about life right now. No, I’d say it’s pretty good. But just… doesn’t it suck when sometimes you just need a little time to catch your breath, but you know the moment you do, all the other races will run right past? There’s a reason why people call it the “rat race,” and we are all just rats.
Reading a memoir is like getting to know someone from the inside, out. You think their thoughts, feel their feelings, and live in their world. It’s consuming, even if it’s only for a brief few hours, a few pages at a time. Oftentimes the author experiences a large shift. A change in location, occupation, or taste. And as the person discovers this new view of the world, so do you; and you are a richer person for it. Their perspective co-mingles with yours, and another person, a complete stranger, has changed you.
Look at my life, look at its importance! An underlying neurotic layer screams from underneath. My perspective is different and unique!
Yet I can’t help but wonder how my life would measure up. Sitting here in my apartment—an instance in the makeup of an extraordinary life. I would write…
“As I sat in my apartment, living my average life, the sudden realization of what it all meant came crashing down. It all means nothing, unless you write it down. Who is to remember what happened in your century of life, a whisper of existence among billions? Who cares? It’s up to you to make it matter. So I sit here in my apartment, writing, and enjoying the sun streaming in, thankful for the hole in the roof my realization has caused.”
Suddenly, I see the light.
That time in kindergarten that boy spit in my face? A wet memory for my memoir. That Halloween I spent laying in bed with a twisted arm instead of going to the annual church Halloween festival? One painful page of my memoir. That time I laughed so hard I fell off the couch? Another memory. That time we kissed under the moonlight for the first time… and then I burped in your face? Another chapter.
None of it really matters in the end. But it matters now. It matters to you.
I tend to get obsessive about things for a while, then get over it, and start to wonder what was wrong with me in the first place. Also, having no section for "Favorite TV Shows" makes absolutely no sense to me. That should tell you a lot right there.