Really.

Really [?!?]

Yes, I really did miss you.

Your surprise, surprises me.

How could I not miss you? You are so easy. I feel myself falling into your words, your eyes, as we talk. As the world melts away around us. Every place is our park bench, our private universe, where no one else...really matters. We talk about everyone that matters, matters out there..but it's out there.

Vulnerability. Weakness. Some of us, we're made of weakness. Those who are strongest and...bold, so bold-they're often the ones suffering the most. I know you are snapping at me because I have something you don't. Stop trying to talk me into believing that, that you are so self possesed now. That a few months doing something different has changed every bit of you. I don't believe it for a second, especially when I can see straight through you on this very normal Fall afternoon. When the distractions, the overt beauty, the newness...when they are all stripped away, all I can see is you. And the huddled, scared little one that you are.

I've learned something real. Relationships are a choice on two ends. Love is expressed differently by every person, but the choice to react, enact, and exist in conjunction-that's not one sided. I'm not sure I want some of you back. I'm sure I don't want some of you. What's the time limit on hurt? When is the time to move on? Exactly 800 hours from the time of the impact? Do I get a grace period if I have a lot going on? I am a science experiment, put on this earth to feel more than anyone else, to experience humanity at the very core of who I am-not just my humanity, but everyone else's, too.

Who asked me? I don't want your burdens! OFF, off, off.

No wonder I forget that I have a choice, too.

I decide not to ask if you missed me. Really. I didn't ask.

I didn't have to.

Really.

One word, said it all.

Really.

I WANT you, I want you right there, on my park bench, on our bench, forever. I thought we at least had forever.

Really.

I know what I have to do to get you back.

Why can't I see that I have a choice? Why can't I see that I don't have to have you? What about you, having me? Does love and a genuine soul really scare you so much? Do you have to run so far?

Really?

really.

Crisp:

This Fall, falling night

That perfect, shining apple

The distant warmth of your tight smile

Awaken/Autumn

7:45

The bright numbers stare me down, full of the potential. Little potential, for 7:46.

I can’t know what to make of this morning. It is bright, so bright. It is shrinking my pupils to tiny pinholes with it’s fall sunlight. That tree, there, is ablaze with Fall. My mind is, too. As these leaves die, I feel like I’m getting some sort of fresh start. Watching these leaves fall, these trees shed, is like some great big annual metaphor for the shedding of whatever..was. The potential, like those numbers, of what could be. What will be, if I only let my eyes open to it.

Is it too bright out there to see a thing? What could be is an overwhelm. The mist, the mist..I miss the comfort of your underwhelm.

And then, just like that, with a hint of what this day and this life can be, the sleep is out of my eyes and out of every muscles. Each muscle thread twitches with everything to do and be done today. I must arise. Awaken, awaken, those fire-leaves call. Awaken. Feel the still air next to your bed. Move it with your just-rising grace. Listen to the strains of a tune, emanating from some distant inspired soul. Dance, dance to that stolen song and that borrowed moment, for what else will you do? You cannot remember yourself now, or you will lose to that jarring screech that is reality. Hold the grace of this bright, bright morning, firmly in your…

In your…

In your outstretched palm.

Streetlamp Ghosts

Missing people. That’s the worst. It’s like…loving and losing, without the closure of just losing. They’re there, right in front of you, but you can’t reach them. Someone checked out or just isn’t right, or right there, and there you are, wandering about the parking lot of the closest building, letting the rain soak your hair and wash your eyelashes as you close your eyes to the dull ache, the ache that used to be pain, the pain of not-losing. That parking lot was full of memories and empty of what could be real.

I miss so many. I miss how you make me laugh, how you make me feel like a shinier version of myself, you made me feel so accepted. All of you, you had to leave, because of life and distance and wherever the path was taking you. It’s nights like this that make me remember it all, and make me wish the ghosts of all of you would stop dancing around me in the mist, beckoning. I wanted these ghosts to disappear, and I wanted to be overwhelmed by all of you really and truly being there, surrounding me, crushing me with your reality and presence. That’s all I want. All I want is everything, all I want is the impossible: to go back to what was, freeze that moment in time, and stagnate joyfully.

I can feel myself reaching out. Some of your ghosts are so real. I have just lost you, and you. Come back, my fingertips whisper, as they brush the dampness and the air. Life is to fall in love with things that will never last, because nothing is yours forever. We search for forever, desperately, but it will never be ours to have. Forever is the greatest fantasy, your ghosts tell me, with laughing eyes and mockery turning your smiles into crushing sneers.

My boot hits the ground with a sharp thud as I come back to what this really is, stepping back. This is just a stormy night, I am just by myself, and this is just an empty parking lot. Each of these spaces had cars, filled with people who fled this place of stark loneliness, to their reality of people. People who are real and now, their fleeting forevers. They didn’t want this place, and as much as my heart yearns for each of your ghosts to become real and embrace me right now…I also am aware of the light in my current reality. I have forevers, too.

I walk out of this parking lot, this dark space, it’s one yellowed light leading me to my path, my path to forever. I was allowed a step back, and a step back reminded me to live in my present. Maybe, one of these ghosts will come back to me. For now, I must preserve my life for what is here and alive.

Thud, thud, thud. My footfalls and my heartbeat. Alive.

Packets

Four packets of sugar. No, five. Five will turn to six soon. This is endless, this tea pot. If this tea pot continues to give and give, I won't object. Not at all. Fill me up. Something should fill me up.

Wait.

I can't drink this anymore. I'm full. But I was always full, wasn't I? I was trying to make room, I was looking for something to fill a gap that didn't ever exist. I am not a piece of a person, and I haven't been for quite some time.

Is this what loneliness has done to me? I created a hole I didn't have, and tried to shove something to fill it, but it just can't be that way! None of my fillers will fit! Not that "friend", not that new habit, not a new style. Nothing can fit a hole that doesn't exist.

I was searching voraciously to be redeemed and to be made new, to be a person no one could recognize, all the while being dragged under the waves. I know who I am much too well to try to change into someone I'm not. I guess my subconscious just knew about it before I did.

You can't be someone you're not. "Sometimes the best way to love someone is to let them go." Sometimes, the best way to love yourself is to let go of what you think you need, you think you have, you think you deserve, and realize that you can love people for exactly who they are, even if THAT is not what you want at the time. There's something real and different about love that isn't what you are looking for or what you expect because, honestly? We don't get what we're looking for, or what we think we deserve. We get what we get. You can't force a square to be round, and you can't force those who walk into your life to be someone else, someone you envision. Love them, or be brave enough to let them go.

And the thing I yearn for the most is the thing I will never get: an average, normal life. You know why? I'm neither. As much as I struggle with that, as much as I hate it...I am neither normal nor average. I'm going places...or I'm trying pretty hard, anyways. I love more deeply, yell louder, laugh longer, and cry harder than almost anyone I know. Life is...it's enough for me, because I make it more than it is. I feel life completely, unapologetically. I can't be normal, as nice as that might seem.

Ok....

Ok....

I'm back to my tea. I'm back to this place of crowds, of roaring whispers, of knowledge and of work. I am whole, totally me, quirky, original, weird. But me, and totally me.

Maybe, though. Maybe there's a little bit of room, here, where I am larger than life...for you.

What the Marianas Trench has to do with Me.

The deepest point of the ocean is the Marianas Trench, which is almost 7 miles deep, covered entirely in water. If you got even halfway down in this watery canyon, you would be crushed by the combination of atmospheric and water pressure. Incredibly, life exists at the very bottom. Yes, we have been able to explore, which really denotes how there is not one spot that we can say is truly untouched on Earth.

Besides being a trivia fact, this is automatically the image I think of when I think depth, and life, and reality. I grew up next to the ocean, so most of the facts that I learned at a young age had to do with marine life and tides and wave patterns. One of the best lessons I learned at a very young age was phrased as a warning, "Never turn your back to the ocean." In other words, life is incredibly unpredictable, so use your sight and whatever wisdom you have to prepare for it, and that's really all you can do. You can't stop the waves from coming and knocking you over, but that doesn't mean you avoid plunging in, as we learned in many undertoes, riptides, and failed attempts to body surf. We were kids: stupid, forgetful, and happy.

The Marianas Trench has always fascinated me for this reason, since the ocean is such a big piece of me. Whenever life seems overwhelming, but incredible in how much one human can experience, I think of this place. It's scary to be human. It's scary to cry for no reason, to be overwhelmed with someone's kindness, and to feel completely eaten up in those feelings. It's scary to trust someone, and it's scarier when you have no one to trust. I have always wanted to experience the trench, just to be afraid, so afraid that I wake from the stupor that I feel I am often in. To be over that deep, deep hole, an unsolvable equation, and marvel at its incredible depth, and how that depth barely touches the depth each person has to feel, feel...everything.

I crave humanity, because it is so real and it must be the only way to feel alive. What is it, to crave humanity? It is to crave everything that makes us...be able to feel. To feel awful and to feel wonderful, it is all humanity. And I know that I am alive, that I have a pulse, when I am most ridiculous and shouting meaningless sentences, but also when I am able to be right next to someone as they experience deep pain, then realize that they can survive their worst nights. I am the hand they hold, and the strength they draw on. It seems strange even to me, to say that this darkness makes me feel alive, but I guess it is the ability to be resilient that is my favorite human trait. The ability to be stupid, even. To be rash, spontaneous, to run head-on into embarrassment and certain risk, but to not care. THAT is humanity. To see the deepest trench in the world, and to be scared out of my mind of the depth and the crushing potential and to still want to be there and absorb that fear? I can't imagine anything more human.

Sometimes, when I am feeling very elementary, I metaphorize myself as the ocean. Sometimes, I am on the shore, not willing to go beyond the surface. Other times, I am in complete, stormy chaos, and still other times...I am at the bottom. I am my deepest trench, overwhelmed with the reality that this wonderful and terrible world is.

I guess...everything has been feeling very real, lately. I'm not explaining myself very well, but I believe that that is where the power of this moment lies-it's inability to be explained. Last night, I started crying over something seemingly small. A sweet gesture, inarguably so, but nothing earth-shattering...but it was so real, and so what I needed, I couldn't stop my visceral reaction. And really? I don't know why I cried. I can figure it out, but from a girl who never cries...it felt truly amazing. Those tears were my ocean, my salt water healing.

It felt human.

It felt alive.

And, as much as I am trying to avoid rambly, diary-type posts...I can't help but share this one. Maybe it's frivolous of me.

Maybe...it's just human.

Loss

So. I see this is your first time dealing with the worst news. Not quite the same as bad news, is it? Bad news lets you keep standing, or maybe you sit down. I hope you were sitting when you heard this one. The worst news never gave you a chance to stay upright-it took the ground away from you as cruelly as a sudden sinkhole.

A sinking feeling? Sure. A daze? Probable. Sobbing with dry eyes?

Always.

The worst comes with the shoulds.

You should be upset, in public, in front of judging and bitter eyes.

You should accept the forced graciousness of those around you. They are being selfless for YOU.

You should act slowly, shuffling, hurt, proper, restrained. Keep your anger. Keep your confusion.

Keep

Your

Fear

Away

All I ever wanted to do was lie in front of that altar and cry, cry for hours, and demand a reason. All I wanted was SENSE, and all I got was whispers and black and a pervasive mist that Friday. The sun, at least, didn't dare mock me.

I hope you have rain. You can blame it all on the rain. Rain brings heavy hearts and wet faces, right?

"At least" comes next.

At least you weren't right there.

At least you got this time, this time.

At least it wasn't sudden.

Because I can PREPARE to have my own mortality shoved in my face? I can PREPARE to have to deal with everything that is swirling around me, but be deemed the strength here? And I can PREPARE to feel like the roof just fell on me, but look ok for the benefit of people who don't care in the way you do, in a way no one can imagine?

I can prepare?

If I had lived the past 200 years, I would not be prepared for this punch in the stomach.

You will want to cry, and that's fine. You will want to curl up and hope you disappear, and that's fine, too. Change out of your Church blacks. Don't ruin your nice shirt.

You will want to scream in rage and confusion and pain.

But don't. It is part of the human process to not be allowed to release the pain you are feeling. It is normal to hold yourself back, for the good of others. It is...considerate. It is a terrible thing, what these customs do to our souls.

Most of all, you will feel alone. No matter how many people pat your arm or offer you water, you will feel like the last person left on the planet. No one can understand. No one can walk you through this.

But, that feeling will fade. One friend will call. Another will leave a note. And another. The less of a stone you are, the more you will notice. And your facade will crack.

And, eventually, it will all rush out. The real tears and the held back screams and the weight, will come out. It might take a week. It might take a month, or a year. But it will happen.

And in the meantime, you aren't alone. That's what I remembered. The good times produce friends, but the worst times illuminate friendships. You might even gain clarity, as I did. I won't bother telling you to feel grateful. You aren't capable of it, not now.

Death...changes people. It changes things, as well. It makes you see that 80 years on the planet is nowhere near enough, and the more you waste, the less time you have to be ok with being a human, being alive. Isn't that what the journey is? Coming to grips with the gift and the curse that is being given a life as a human, and making sure your 80 years did some good. The best thing that death has done for me is remind me that every good thing I do, is not a means to the end, but an piece of something that will someday be illuminated as beautiful. Death is horrible, but it is also a celebration of something we are given for no real reason. Life, in fact, is not a race to the end. It is every day you see something incredible. It is every relationship that gave you acceptance and love. It is feeling the deepest emotions, and knowing that you are the only species that can FEEL, feel terrific pain and extreme anger and incredible, indescribable bliss. That is what death, to me, really was: a reminder that nothing is stupid or not worthwhile, if one day, someone else will want to cry by my photo, cry because I did something for them that no one else ever bothered to do.

You cry because you loved. And you don't stop loving because it's risky, but you gather as much as you can, in hopes that someone will someday cry for you.

That is life. That is death.

And this? This is a funeral. Remember your somber. Your straight face. Do not laugh at the priest. Do not fall asleep during the 4th eulogy, because you are so tired from crying instead of sleeping last night, and this man has a monotone and that church is stifling and you don't even know what you are doing, with your youth and your LIFE, at that place.

Aren't you a blessing? You brought life to the funeral. I have been told that, before. Youth is a gift you give to others.

Remember your training. Remember your civility, your maturity, and your subtlest body language. Remember that this is not about you, as it should be, but about making everyone else comfortable. Remember that this is a social rite, not a true expression of emotion.

And, remember to celebrate. Celebrate the life you have. Celebrate the life you want. And come back to reality with something new.

That is death.

Redefine: Romance

I sip my tea slowly and deliberately.
My first thought: I loathe the word sip. It is an ugly syllable full of hissing and an wishy-washy consonant.
My tea is too hot to drink though, so "sip" will have to suffice.
I'm staring out the window at the cloudy day in front of me, myself a bubble of contentment inside my cozy bubble of my bed and my comforters and my pillows and my warmth.
And, I am alone. Romantically, alone.

Romance: the last definition of the word, in the dictionary, is about love. The others? About fairytales and a world of excitement and strong beauty.

My definition...is none of these. Romance is mystery, whimsy. spontaneity, and contentment. This place, with its perfect breeze and large windows and whispers of my past... it is romance, as much as my beautiful ocean place is romance.

Life is busy. Life is hectic and dizzying and often chaos. Simplicity can no longer bring pleasure for so many, because..we are too stimulated to appreciate the basics.

Honestly, though? Simplicity is my greatest pleasure. I couldn't be happier than when I feel the touch of someone I love, or am able to sit and clear my mind so that latent thoughts can rush in with this beautiful breeze.

Yesterday, I was granted the amazing luxury of a romantic and beautiful day. Was it spent with a beau? No, not at all, but it was romantic. I was able to take my time getting from place to place. I was able to eat things that had no nutritional value, but put a smile on my face. I was given the gift of intelligent, meaningful conversation in the most unusual places, real connection. I was given tender touches, perfect sunlight, and definite acceptance. Even the moments when things that are deeply rooted in the "things that hurt" part of my soul were brought up, I felt safe in my friends, and I walked away content.

Romance is the power to be perfectly content, for a little while. Everything makes sense for a moment, and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. Romance is freedom from everything that restrains ourselves from being completely unique and quirky, as we really are. It is the freedom to contemplate, or not to think at all.

I think my perfect day will be lifting my spirits up for some time.

Bottom

In, in.
I am bottomless.
In, in.
I hear you, I accept you, I love you, and I can give you everything I am for this moment.
In, in.

get out.

I have done it again. I have overwhelmed, overwrought, and certainly overextended. I don't even have the energy to expel, and fatally so, for now all I can do is lay at my lowest point and accept the pool of other people that I sit in.
The awful dreams will follow.
The nightmares of betrayal and hurt and everything I can't at all feel in this real life, but that my subconscious drowns in.
I drown here in all of you.
You have used me up, and I have let you.

WHY must you use me up so?

Questioning, I lay here, still as the air in a snow covered scape.

breath...breath...breath...

Tastebuds

"I miss you, and we’ve never met. And maybe we have, and I have no idea, but you aren’t here now, and I’ve never hated anything more."

This poured out of my fingertips today.
I'm pretending to not understand why, why I would think any of this, why these thoughts would appear.

But let's be honest.
Those words don't come from nowhere.
I am a girl cursed with timidity and a lack of experience in all things romantic, but with a heart bigger than I can handle. I have the capacity to love with vehemence, but lacking in the outlet of...you.
Any you, really. A you that wants to share a little slice of life, a long walk, real words and spontaneous moments. Spontaneity above all.
I know what melancholia is. I know what it is to miss something you have never had. Frustration is made all the worse when you so deeply desire something that barely exists in your hemisphere.

Eyes...glaze over. Tunnel vision...takes hold. Thoughts swirl and I remember a night that feels eons ago. I had run, run outside to feel the brush of my first snowflakes, falling gently around me, melting into my pulsing skin and burning curls. I opened my mouth, and those snowflakes singed my unrolled tongue with their fervent cold. In my hand, was my phone. I couldn't wait to tell you, the very real you on the other end of the airwaves, about how my heart was widening with the newest sight. Snow! I was bursting with excitement and naivete and I wanted to taste it, taste it all.

That's really what it was for me. The taste. Taste is like electricity in my mouth, and snow was something new. It brushed my tongue with something I'd never known, with cold and wet and melt. I couldn't describe it to you, I remember that. I was so happy to tell you about it, and you listened.
Oh, that taste.
It didn't taste like you. I didn't know that, then. You...you were all heat. You tried to be soft, but you couldn't help it-you tasted of roughness and urgency and kindness. And Nutella. You tasted of your newest experience. Did I of mine? Did I taste of snow, next to that ocean, that night? Everything about that night, that time, was new and full. I felt full, of everything you were giving me. And you gave me so much. And you tasted of all of that, and potential that would never be, and I was absorbed into you as you sunk your teeth into me. You ate me up, that year, in every way. I was spent, each night, from your ravenous appetite for my vitality and for everything that made me alive. You. Ate. Me.

And now, years later, all I can hope is that I tasted as new as I felt.

Darker

I am tan.
My skin has darkened.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you to the sun and summer and long hours in the glaring, shining UV rays. My mother would so disapprove of my skin color and my "sun damage" and my risk of getting skin cancer. She is so afraid that I will end up like her, with holes in my forehead from endless biopsies. With the fear of something greater than lacerations. And I remember that day, dark in my heart but incredibly bright when I got that call...that word, feared unlike any other....cancer...
I've never been more pale than I was that day.
But today, I rejoice in my skin's darkness. Ironically, I rejoice because of my mom, because of my grandparents, because of my heritage. I am fiercely and proudly, an Arab. The most hated race in America and a huge part of what makes me, me. The paler I get, the farther away I appear from my Lebanese heritage, and I hate that.
So many times, I hear "But...you don't look Libanese...", slurred in some French accent by a creepy Arabic man at a party or in a club. I get that. I get what you might think, that I am Jewish or Italian or German. My hair is not super curly, my eyes are not dark, and I have the body of a Latina. I am an unidentifiable race, I could be anything, I am in-between. I have no place, but I have placed myself with the Lebanese, and happily thus.
The confusion is understandable. Those who challenge my heritage...well, that's when it becomes a pet peeve.
Since when do I have to fit into your cookie cutter to identify with my background? I don't feel like being forced into your molds or your stereotypes. I don't speak Arabic or have a very dark complexion, so I can't be Arabic. I am too outgoing and attached to my family to be a WASP. I am not mixed race, but I am mixed culture. Raised in the whitest of white suburbs, I was once asked by a 100% Cantonese girl if I counted as Asian. I have been called a terrorist multiple times, and "Wait, what are you?" is a question I get often, like I am some alien plant matter, instead of a person with a strong heritage and an identity. All of this stopped bothering me about a year ago, when I started to say :"I'm Arabic" as a fact more than a defense.

Today, it is a hot, sunshine-y day. I am scheduled to be outside for the strongest rays of the day. And, even though I want to care for my skin...today, I hope to deepen my coloring. My melanin is a reminder that I am who I am, fiercely, proudly.
I face the sun, and I absorb who I am.

Split

I really do believe, perhaps in naivete or in truth, that my greatest fear has nothing to do with death, nothing to do with loss, nothing to do with being trapped or tortured or afraid.
My biggest fear is that I could lie to myself enough to create another me, enough to become someone I can't recognize.

Not all who wander are lost, but all who have lost the ability to wonder...they might never be found.
Every day, I question myself, and I question everything around me. I'm never satisfied with what things appear to be-there's always depth to every surface appearance, especially when it comes to people who seem one dimensional. Discounting someone is the best way to hurt yourself, to hurt your chance at friendship, or love, or something wonderful.

And this is who I am, these are my greatest beliefs.
And my biggest fear is that I could somehow convince myself that I am none of these things. That any momentary lack of self confidence I might feel would become permanent, that I would morph into someone I can't understand.
But I am sure that that won't happen.

I have a friend who...he did this, to himself. His inner self, the one he rarely reveals, even to me..is wonderful. That version of J is sweet, passionate, funny, and above all, genuine. That version isn't cool, not in the least, but that version also doesn't care whatsoever.
But the other version..is what he shows to the world. A mask, a shield, a wall I could see right through, and most people never bother to examine. If you hand people a version of yourself...they will usually accept it, run with it, neglect to bother with any other part of you. I hate this version of him. Everything about me rails against every part of J's version B. He is harsh, cynical, scathing, a hotshot. I can't stand it, though I tolerate it when it must come out.
We all have a shield. We all have a front. We all deal with the overwhelm that is the world by creating an alternate self, a self that has no insides or guts, a self that is social and exciting and someone easy to love.
But...what happens when that piece becomes the whole? Is there any stepping back? Is there a chance of being who you were, or who you should be, or who you can be? Or do we become so entrenched in our preferable outer selves that returning to introspection is...impossible?

The idea really scares me. I force myself to see the dichotomy I have created for myself every day. I am one piece bubbly, fun-loving, endlessly outgoing, and loud. I am, in the other piece, quiet, extremely introspective, wise, and without drama or excitement. I can tell you that most days, I prefer the quieter side to myself. She is easier to live with. Much less maintenance. She can have mussed hair, wear sweatpants, and drink pots of tea on a rainy day. She is the one who keeps this blog. The frantic-seeker does not have the patience to write, think, breathe. She is too busy finding her next latte.
I waver between my two halves constantly, of course. I would venture to say that my "true self" is neither one nor the other, but whatever combination I choose to make. But that is only because I KNOW that there are two sides to me, know that I am always a little different, know my limits. Those who are lost don't see a split and they don't see the fusion. They don't know who they are, or how to get to their own core.
And I used to be that way.
And I never, ever want to go back.
I am vigilant, and I am determined. I know who I am. I know what I want and I know that I don't know much of anything. I know how much I rely on the people I love to keep me upright, and I know that I NEED no one but myself to be ok.

I'll keep loving caffeine, to keep me upbeat. I'll keep loving my journal, to keep me grounded. And I'll keep trying to help the lost soul of my friend. All he needs is someone to be as honest to him as I am to myself.
Oh, J. We'll find you in this mess. You "didn't used to be this way"? Forget your past, and let go of who you think you should be. You are so much more.

Mad Men

blink....blink...blinkblink...blink
Another message. Another hour, another message. It's from an unknown number this time, but it's always the same thing. My beautiful sister and her new boyfriend, at some lovely restaurant, being what can only be termed as "sweethearts". He likes her more than she knows, and he could love her in ways she can't really grasp. Love from men, healthy love, isn't something my sister will ever be able to understand.
She was so hurt, those years ago.
She still hurts.
And this wounded girl, this fallen angel, has found a kindred spirit in the unlikliest way. The suburbs are not known for socializing, and mental health groups are not known for their matchmaking.
But here she is. Looking demure, innocent, scared, and hopeful. Everything I want for her.

My hackles are up, of course. When she was hurt, so was I. So was our family. Hurt is never a one-person endeavor. Could this new boy hurt her again? She would never recover.
We would never recover.

In the back of my mind seeps uncharitable thoughts. Why can she get a boyfriend, this mentally ill woman, and I can't even get a date? Maybe I'm not the normal one at all. Maybe I must face my social failure.

Then again...it's, well. It's been an interesting few days for my nonexistent love life. My mom called to check in the other day, and conversation quickly descended into:
"Have you met any nice guys lately?"
This is code for: Have you met The Man You Want To Marry?
At this point, I've stopped noticing the question, and I make sure to vary my answers to suit. Recently, "they're all gay" has been the best response, no matter how untrue it is.
In another thread, one of my best friends is fascinated by my loveless existence. He always wants to talk about it, analyze it, then decide he needs to cheer me about it. Cheering me up usually consists of wondering at how someone as cool and smart as me could be single.
This is not helpful.

I don't lack in companionship. I don't need love or support. I'm taken care of. I'm more than fine.
All I hope, is that people can see the strength I have in my solitude.
For everything I want to have...who I am is pretty close.

Breathe

Truism: There is a first time for everything. New things, first things, are most of all frightening, and second of all-wonderful.
My newest new? My first?
Giving myself a chance.
I have this annoying habit of giving myself very little leeway to be a human being. I am restrained, strict, and hard on myself. Some people see me as critical, but the one person I am most critical of, is myself. Compliments have always been hard for me to hear, and change is made all that more difficult. Change is barely a smooth or flawless process, and any mistakes that come up-well, I've always blamed myself. It isn't the most pleasant outlook, to be sure.

Now, I'm letting myself breathe.
I'm letting myself see things in a different light. I can take compliments, and, more importantly, have the confidence to see my own strengths. That, in itself, has been beautiful enlightenment. By being able to see my real strengths, even through the eyes of people who actually CAN see them, I'm figuring out goals and career paths and my life. It's been not only eye opening, but genuinely important. It's terrible to think about how easily I could've skipped this part, and ended up chasing a dream I don't even have.

I'm also allowing myself to trust people again. I really stopped doing that for a while, after getting hurt, after building a wall. Even further than that, I am allowing second chances-both for myself, and for other people. This summer has changed me, and I have changed. It all feels like a second chance, to have the life I really want. I've never felt this...alive. It isn't always happiness (sometimes it is misery), but it IS always right and always invigorating and infuriating and powerful inspiration. I care more than I ever have, about my own creativity and about the needs of others. I CARE. Maybe too much.

And that's my third chance. I am not cool. At all. I'm not aloof, I don't withhold the love, I don't pretend nonchalance. If I'm happy to see you, I will show it. I think, for this year, I was trying to be "cool" and impersonal...to save face? to seem important? Who can know, but I am so past that. I hope that my friends can love and accept this, because enthusiasm, in a genuine way, is my thang. It'll be easier this way, guys-if I like it, you'll know. If I don't, you'll know. Easy, right?

Breathe. Easy, right?

An Open Letter to Anyone Who Might Like to Crush My Dreams

Dear Potential Dream Crushers:
First off, welcome. This is my dream world. Not as ridiculous as you expected, I imagine. When I say "dream", I don't mean meaningless fluff. I dream about having normal, beautiful things in my life. Nothing crazy. You won't find an alternate universe here. Mostly, just contentment.
Feel that wind? That's motivation. Drive, if you will. It's persistent, I know. I hope it never stops pushing at me. It pushes me, pushes my dreams, and shapes my path. I'm not sure what I'd do if the air here was still.
Try not to get distracted here. i have a lot I want to accomplish, and only about 70 years left on the planet to do it, if I'm lucky. It's a lot to fit in, you can tell. It's crowded with realism here.
So, if I may have your attention.
These are my dreams. You must feel honored to be able to view them-they aren't things I readily share. You SHOULD feel honored. I'm sure your life is too big and busy to really care, but you should.
Here's the thing. The reason this place might make you a little uncomfortable, is because these are not your dreams. You've gotten a lot of those. Others were unreal from the start. You've lived a good life. These are mine.
And that's the most important part.
I know that you see all of this, alive with color and potential, and the first thing in your mind is all the reasons why these things can't happen. Sure, I have noble goals-most of these goals have nothing to do with personal gain. But, no no no. There are problems and bumps and barriers.
No.
No.
NO.
So, this is what I have to say to you. Listen closely.
Don't you DARE tell me no. This is my dream. You have no right to say no, to discourage me, to tell me to face what is real. These are not your dreams, you have no right. Do you think you ever did? You never did.
With this wind at my back, determination flares.
I can't be told that my dreams are dead in the water. I don't even know what that phrase means, besides DAMN IT.
I have dreams. So many dreams. And goals, real goals. I know that I will never be happy unless I am making others happy. I know that my dreams can be real. And life, and people, and life again, love to say no, don't be ridiculous.
Well. You know what I know for sure? If my dream to help people through creativity, communication, love, community-if those dreams are ridiculous, please, I never want to go back to whatever reality is.

Say no again
Try me.

Unresolved

"You marry your unresolved issues."
Dear sir, you have uttered a phrase that is unparalleled in how much fear it gives me.
I could feel my heart clench in as these words fell upon me. I could envision the roof falling in with the sense of complete dread I felt.
How could you? Your authority gives you every allowance to say something like this. Your experience should have taught you not to.

There is no such thing as normal. Were you aware, sir? Normal is nothing. Don't tell me that there are cases where this won't...your words blur as I imagine the worst for my future.

No wait. Not that. Not that.
I deserve love, don't I? Don't we all? We do, we must, we must. I can't shake this DOOM but at the same time, I hold out much more hope than your statistics. At the most inappropriate of times, under these fluorescents, you have tapped into my greatest fear. If you have nothing, but you have love-you have wealth. If you have hatred, you are poor. You are nothing.
And I refuse to be nothing.
So, I will be your exception, your "special case" that you mentioned for courtesy's sake please and thank you very very much.

For now? My hope is not gone. It is low, it is founded in the nothingness I have. But I am young, still, too young to really be despairing that love will never come.
I am young, still. I am hope.

Please, oh please. Please, God. Let me be the exception.

Tech

Great relief and incredible discomfort. These are adjectives for the pulling of a wisdom tooth, the finding of passion, the cool of aloe against newly sunburnt skin. One thing these words are not for, is the loss of PING PING PING.
My emails stopped coming through to my "smartphone" while I was on my "disconnected vacation". Disconnected. What a joke. My phone was in hand the entire time, reminding me that beyond the perfect simplicity of my family and being a visitor in their domestic lives, I had the real me waiting for me, just one clickclicksend away.
My phone has a tendency to snap back or freeze up with great overuse. No wonder they are called smartphones...they are smart enough to know when to quit. For me, I just gulp more caffeine, and will the treadmill to do its worst.
I have a strange awareness of how wrapped up I am in my projects and my BU life. It's like I can sort of see myself as someone on the street might, stomping about and being...determined. I will never have this kind of energy again, and I am filling up every moment I can with these things that I love. For someone who loves their downtime, it's a strange habit, that I am the busiest person I know. I wish I could articulate myself further than...I love it, and I'm addicted to controlled frenzy.

When I was in high school, I would go to Mexico every year. There was no way to reach me for 6 days straight. I was in a bubble, talking only to the group I was with. The greatest entertainment came not from internet gossip or anyone's facebook, but from the best stories told around the nightly fire as we huddled for warmth against the thick fog, or in the whispered secrets of the crowded, freezing tents at an unknown time in the night. We spent a week without any real concept of time, with "electricity" consisting of a flashlight here and there. Luxury was a sweater that was warm enough, a non smashed sandwich lunch each day, or a loan of a headlamp to be able to read at night. Luxury was beef at dinner, finding a pair of clean socks, and being the first person to use the clean boiled water, before dust could settle in it.
What is luxury now? A beautiful new car. A 200 dollar meal at the most popular restaurant in town. The smartest smartphone around.
It is the best of what we have, and maybe we have too much. The "best" is different to different people, but what does a car mean if you have no one to sit with you on long drives? A fire seems the "best" when what you want and need most is anyone else.

You know what? My phone is a necessity to me. If I didn't have communication, I wouldn't have the opportunities I am getting these days, to shoot for the career that I really want. I'm not oblivious to that.

Allow me, however, to miss my Mexican Nowhere. There is a part of you that isn't really allowed to exist in the insanity of regular life, a part that can only emerge when comfort and preoccupation and familiarity are stripped away. I wouldn't say that this is the "true you", really, but I would venture to say that it is an important part that isn't allowed out often enough.

Today, there are "technology retreats". They are vacations of all shapes and sizes, but one overarching rule: no internet, no phones, no connecting. So we need uniformed attendants to instruct us to drop the email and connect with the human next to us.
No.
I'm challenging myself to be more here, where I am, wherever that may be. That email can wait. Life is right here, and we are all so busy trying to catch up with a life over the airwaves, a life that can't even exist on the ground.
Now, when I am with someone, I am with them fully. No texting, no emails. I give you myself, as simple as falling rain. Human connection is inevitable, sometimes painful, and completely necessary. Don't let that smartphone, outsmart you.

And the Gray Glows to White

Revelation: Noun. something revealed or disclosed, esp. a striking disclosure, as of something not before realized.

I feel as if I knew it all along. Today's lightning bolt, fueled by unusal caffeine and usual knowledge seeking, felt familiar as soon as it hit. It was the closest thing to a healing burn that I could imagine-I was scarred and spurred and struck, all at once, all in the same moment.

"The rest of my life." A daunting phrase, that also carries the possibility of such incredible comfort. A path not taken may be an adventure, but it is also a frightening unknown. For someone who likes control, planning, predictability, and those things well thought-out, it took someone impulsive and spontaneous conversation to finally figure out that my life could be truly different from what I pictured, different from what anyone pictured. I have had two rules for myself, always: do good for someone else, and love it. Love it to the core of its being and to your own soul.

What was incredible about the discovery itself, besides that it was completely unexpected, was the company to which it was shared. My mom has always been my most trusted confidante, and to receive such generous and enviable support from people who aren't even related to me-that is amazing. Not only did they temper my stunned silences with exclamations of excitement, they were able to take in stride what I could not. They were able to recognize how GOOD it is that I was able to discover something huge about myself and my future. They get it-the risks, the fear, how hard it would be, everything. They were able to bundle all of this together with the fact that it was clear: this work makes me so happy, feel so amazing and productive and strong, and nothing could be more worth risking than whatever it takes to continue those feelings. I am in love with everything I feel in this, and to be seen for that bit, a bit that is more of an undercurrent than a loud declaration-that's all we really want in a friend, truly. To be seen, to be mirrored. Jess and Cara: thank you.

The other thing, above how different this could make my path in life, is the fact that I have suddenly found things I care deeply about that I would never have expected. Community? Interaction? Belonging? All important, vital factors to self actualization, yes, but to devote so much to making this happen for others...I just never thought I'd care. But I care. I care immensely, truly, madly, deeply. I have fallen for these ideas and ideals.

None of this would have even happened without my partner in crime. I owe him a hug in thanks and an apology for never giving him a chance before. I think we owe it to each other, really.

So, in a way I would have never expected, at the middle of college, I am embarking on a new stage of this strange and awkward thing I call my life. Usually, when I change something big, I find myself being afraid of...something. I find I am often admitting fear at any crux, basically. This time?
Not so scared.

I can't imagine anything I could lose that wouldn't be worth reaching my dreams.

My...dreams.

Mistaken

Oh...a hug? Hello, a hug.
It doesn't make sense, really. It makes no sense at all.
Just a few short days ago, I don't even know if I would have given you the time of day, unless you had really asked with a measure of desperation entering your voice. If you really needed the time, I would have given it to you. But only if it had reached that extent.

And now, we are speaking about bacon and your new phone and my caffeine addiction. We speak as if we have always been this way, acquaintances and friends and intimately tied together. I answered the phone, hopped into the car, let you make the decisions, without even a beat, without a pause, without a "This is strange, Sarah, this is wrong and new and something else." It doesn't feel wrong with you. You make me laugh. You tell me stories of your high school years, using self depricating humor to softly cover how hurt you once were. You are, in every sense, a person, and I find myself realizing that there is no going back for me. I will always have this softness of you with me, and I will never be able to hate you again. You are no longer an ideal or an object to despise, but a person with a real soul and everything to offer. And my, do you make me laugh.

This is so different from the last time that someone surprised me. That was more of a shock than a surprise. I couldn't believe that you had been so disingenuous.You listened to my real concerns and my crazy rants and my opinions like no one had before. And you smiled, not just towards me but at me. Your smile is. Your smile was electric. Now your smile is a shadow of joy. I hope you feel proud, for you had me so fooled that I fell for you. I fell. I FELL, for you. I hadn't felt so excited for the possibility of something beautiful in so long, and you had me believing that you felt the same. In your oblivion, did you never stop to think that maybe you were about to crush me? That one day, with the flowers falling fragrance around me, carried on the warm spring breeze-I never thought I would see something so magical. How dare you take my magic. It doesn't help that you are such the politician. Oh A, you would never dream of directly snubbing me, but with your haughty words and priorities that have nothing to do with me, we are as good as done, but worse. I will never get the satisfaction of an ending. I mustn't burn bridges. I mustn't. I must stifle. But! We could have been a pair, you and I. A real envy. I am glad that temptation was yanked from me before it could have even really have dangled in front of me. The deeper the nail, the more pain it takes to remove it.

I take each person for who they present themselves to be-ironic. Ironic, because I am not who I pretend to be, not at all. I am something else entirely. But I take you, all of you, at face value, and I am open and ready and prepared to be stepped on. I expect too much, and I think I am expecting exactly as I should, and I am everything that is a problem.

And the one person who never fooled me? He is long gone, a ghost and a reason and barely anything more. But he taught me more than he realizes. There are people who wear their pain and their triumphs right where I can see them. They present nothing except reality. Surprise is impossible.

Surprise is impossible.

Flood

It's back again.

That flood, that nuisance.
That flood of inconsequence, of every fleeting moment that you wish you could reclaim, if only to destroy. As if ownership would give you the power to smash every last second of these...memories.
These memories that flood, like the worst kind of flood in all of history. I don't suppose that there is a good kind of flood, really. A flood of delight? Violence is built into every last letter. F-L-O-O-D. It's syllable sits heavily in the air.

You sit there, with your memories of nothing, nothings that are everything to you and to who you have become. This...flood renders you incapable of normal conversation or natural observations of the current world, as you drown in the brush of his fingers and the whisper of promise from years ago.

I am too young for this. I am too old for it, as well, too old for this sort of melancholy, and entirely too young to have enough moments of nothing and everything to build a raging...flood.

As unhelpful, as stuck as it seems, all I want to do is float in this river of the recent past. I wish it to be different, I wish to take these memories in my hand and shape them and let them shape me into a being that is moving forward instead of with the current, like I have some control. Have you ever tried to hold water in your hand?
No control.

There is one thing that is for sure, as I stare at the sky above my watery post.
The waters will dry, the whispers and his fingertips will no longer sit staunchly in the front of every. single. thought. Every. single. smile. will not hide the moments that will never be again, no matter how sweet they once were. They have bittered with age, haven't they?
Haven't they?

Float on, wistfully, wistfully. Pragmatism will come with the wind-as incontrollable as this flood, perhaps, but more accepting of standing. I can stand here in the wind.

Defining friendship

More than hipster style, autotuned music, and eco-friendliness, ambiguity seems to be the biggest trend of recent years.
Nothing is black and white, well defined anymore. What is a hook up? There are as many definitions as there are kinds of juice at Trader Joe's. What about free time? Some of us don't even know what that means anymore. And "the conventional family"? Can we even attempt to define family at all? Home is no longer one place anymore, and relationships are relevant. Even our physical place is subject to interpretation, as we can easily communicate with someone who is a far away from us as the Earth is from the moon.
Certainty is no longer an option.
No wonder we are so damn anxious all the time-our own, safe bubbles are indefinable. We can't even fully comprehend our worlds, because suddenly, our worlds are boundless.
One character trait I have is that of embraced confusion. I am constantly confused, but I'm also unafraid to admit it. I'm confused about everything from school subjects to social norms to the ins and outs of American politics...and American football. A lot of this confusion stems from the fact that I don't have conventional views on many things. I'm firm on things that most people are easygoing about, and open minded about subjects that often seem to have one single viewpoint.
One thing that I am firm on?
Friendship.
There are rules. There is, of course, a difference between a friend and an acquaintance-that part is simple. But in a world full of endless possibilites, I have set down my own "box" of friendship. This stems, as do many things, from past hurt-friends, or those that I believed to be friends, have hurt me and disappointed me about 18 ways from Sunday. I grew weary of expecting things from people who could not offer them.
Let's make one thing clear. I am a great friend. You should be lucky to be counted as one of my friends, and really lucky to be a close friend. Because of past disappointments, I have been more picky in who I let into my life. So I take the friend label much more seriously than most.
So, my rules?
1. Be loyal. Sometimes, you have to choose between friends, and who you choose is a reflection of your desires. Not choosing is a choice as well.
2. Care. Seems simple, but it isn't. Be considerate enough to ask about the other person, and be ready to listen, actually listen, to what they have to say. Don't text in the middle of my synopsis. Don't gaze off into the distance the moment I speak.Try to listen.
3. Be available when it's actually important. This isn't a needy demand for you to drop everything and rush to my aid. This is a request that you pick up the phone when I call. Then, follow #2 after answering.
4. Be interesting. I know this seems a little strange, but hear me out. I can't relate to someone unless they care about something. It can be your dog, it can be your family history, it can be the future of the AIDS vaccine. I'm not particular. Just care about something so that we can talk about it and so I can learn from you.
5. Make some effort. If I call you 30 times, and you send me one text, I feel rejected, and no we aren't friends, just phone-tag buddies. Date book relationship.
That's it, really. These seem like really solid, really basic things to me, but I have found that these are very hard to find in someone else. You can't be a jerk, ignore me for two weeks, then expect a hug to smooth it all over. You can't make awful jokes but expect me to understand the humor. You can't pick and choose when we will be friends, depending on your scheduling convenience.
Figure yourself out, and then we can muddle through life together.

Close

I miss so many things right now.
Like, my bed at home. My puppy's little belly. Real Arabic food.
The thing I am wistful for most right now, though, and for the past few weeks: physical closeness. I really miss the feeling of being enveloped, being touched gently, feeling pressure and that flutter within. I'm not completely without being touched, of course, but the touches I get these days are brief acknowledgments of my presence and my form. And they are fine, acceptable, pleasant for what they are.
But they are not enough.
I want to be acknowledged for my gender, for my physical presence. Everything I am is from the inside, but it is expressed fully on the outside.

I like being touched. Babies die without being touched. Why? Because it is our most basic form of showing love, caring, even just a lack of disgust with someone else. We've been touching since the dawn of human forms. The easiest way to send a chill or a thrill through me is through the lightest of touches, of an expression of...something. It can express so much-affection, excitement, anger, hate, lust, love.
Everything is in what we do, more so than what we say. A touch is a bottom line.

And I miss it. I miss the romantic parts of touch, the excitement that I am there in physical presence. I miss being held. I miss it.

Snap

Sassiness. Being sassy. A trademark of who I am is that I am witty, or sarcastic, or funny, but whatever it is exactly, it can all be boiled down to one simple word: sassy. My sense of humor can be biting at times, but people seem to love it, and what I am finding now is an interesting phenomenon: I'm getting that sassy given back to me. Now that it's summer, my friends have fallen into one of two camps: Women's Center ladies, and my guy friends. Yesterday was a day spent solely with the opposite sex, which generally suits me, as I can be as sassy as I want without the risk of hurting anyone's feelings. What always takes me be surprise is how quickly guys start giving it back to me, even after I've known them for...not long at all. Sometimes I fear that this is my undue influence, but I actually think that most intelligent men are naturally witty with a biting edge. Guys are raised to be the "funny ones", to entertain women, but they are never nice to each other. When they find a girl who can joke around like one of the boys, they are pretty quick to embrace that, and I love my friendships for what they are. I love being able to joke around and being one of them, instead of being treated like some fragile object, as many boys will act towards girls. I HATE being treated differently than any other friend, even though gender differences are often unavoidable.

I'm rambling. Here's my point. I've always wondered why so many guys I know feel so comfortable in biting, witty humor towards me after 10 minutes of knowing me. A friend says it simply like this: "We are just testing our boundaries, how far you will let us go with you." I've experienced a lot of wit in the past few weeks from new friends and even co workers, and I certainly don't mind it, even if it might be often unexpected. The ability to have a quick wit is a great mark of intelligence, in my opinion, and I am always excited when someone can keep up with me.

Did you follow? Don't hurt yourself ;)

Life is better with a wink thrown in.

Adulting

It's been about a week of adulthood (read: full time job and living in an apartment), and everything that could have gone wrong, has. It's been sweltering hot, then rainy, and this apartment has basically no climate control. I was sold bad chicken, I blew a fuse, and I have cut multiple fingers both at home and at work. Paper cuts are a job hazard of working in an archive, I suppose. Work is fun, but can get tedious, and it is NOT social. This is the most alone time I have had...ever, and I must say that I wish it bothered me, but it actually doesn't bother me one bit. I really like being by myself and having utter freedom to do as I please, which generally consists of cooking and reading. Try not to be astounded by how exciting I am.

All in all, I am enjoying it, and what still feels like a detox from the year. I think, at heart, I am very much a hermit, or at least, antisocial. It's a very strange thing, to realize in the middle of your college career that you'd often rather be alone than meeting people. This is supposed to be when you are making 1000 different friends and many more acquaintances, making all of your mistakes in front of an audience, and always have people around. This was my life 24/7 my first two years, and I started to pull away from all of that as I changed how I lived my academic and extracurricular life. I'm happier now, by far, but I also can see and feel the change, and the constraints of normalcy are something I constantly ruminate upon. Is the life I have chosen, normal? One with fewer friends and more filling? Does it matter, in the end, of the world's normal versus my normal?

Not at all.

Lady

How can I sum up my past two weeks? They've been exhilarating, and exhausting. I've spent a lot of time by myself, in really crowded and beautiful cities. I learned something important about myself: it's not that I often choose to be by myself in order to escape tiresome company or to detox from a social day, but merely because I really just enjoy solitude and the companionship of no one. I get to do whatever I want when I am on my own, without fear of judgement or the pull of the obligations of others. There are very few friends that I can honestly say provide me with that kind of perfect company, so being on my own is often a place I find a different kind of comfort and freedom. Most people know that my freedom is one of my most treasured possessions and values-I even want a tattoo of flying birds to symbolize how important it is to me. Not that I will get the ink, because I am a lady....

Which brings me to what I want to write about. I have been traveling and seeing people, and that has been perfect and wonderful, but I don't feel any compulsion to complain about the fact that I had to take 6 flights in the space of 5 days, or to wax poetic on the values of DC, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Boston, and LA. They were wonderful and I gained a few pounds in each city, and it's hard for me to express what love I felt in the hospitality of my hosts. But my subject this week? It's on being a lady.

This is a pretty loaded topic for yours truly. Since I was a very little girl, I have been trained to have impeccable manners and depthless class. Being polite isn't just a formality, it is a complex mindset that dictates that you must make all others feel comfortable and at ease above yourself. I have learned that manners are a type of selflessness, but that manners are not the only aspect of being polite and of being a lady. Class is not something that can be learned late in life-you either learned it young, or you didn't. I miss wide spread gentility; I know that I am a feminist, but I also believe that men should open doors for women, that one should actually care when you ask "How are you?", and that how you dress really does tell the world what you think of yourself. I believe please and thank you should be said with eye contact and sincerity, and that compliments should be given only when you truly want to give them, so that they may be genuine.

My manners training has never led me astray-I am only in trouble when I get tired or impatient, and I let my polite upbringing fall to the wayside in favor of swear words and bad posture. Do I think rules such as "Sip your soup away from your mouth" or "You may never carry more weight than will be a light strain" are a little ridiculous? Of course-I'm fiercely independent and something of a boy at times, and following rules such as these often seem superfluous at best. Each person should be allowed to be whoever they want to be, but having years of being taught the ways of polite company has always given me a background to fall back on that I really treasure. Formal events and small talk are never awkward for me. I know how to use a complex place setting, and I know how to avoid judgment in the upper eschelons, just by how I dress. I'm told that I have perfect posture and can articulate better than some politicians, and I owe these attributes to my "training".

Being a "lady" in these modern times is not easy. Women facing unbelievable pressures to be everyone and everything, and do it all without breaking a sweat. We are supposed to be sexy, but never trashy. Intelligent, but not outspoken. Independent, but within the boundaries of social norms. Polite, but never stiff. How complex could our lives possibly be, just by the virtue of existing?? It's enough to drive a girl crazy. I muddle through, hoping my efforts at class are received well. Honestly, I know that I am better received by adults than by people my age, and part of my being a lady is that I prefer not to talk about personal matters to a public audience. I don't kiss and tell to just anyone.

I've noticed that I've been dressing more like fashion icons Jackie O and Audrey Hepburn as of late. I've forgone boys' clothes in favor of dressing in a more ladylike, sweet way-it suits me, I must say. After 2 years of college, I moved on from trying to be funky, and I've embraced my own style of being clean-cut, sometimes androgynous and sometimes saccharine, but always classy and hopefully, a kind of everyday elegance. I'm growing up, but bringing my breeding with me. Out dated and old fashioned as I might seem, I'm not going to change. I just have to believe that the "formality" and politeness is appreciated, sooner or later.

And remember! "A lady never crosses her legs at the knee." Ankle cross and tuck, people!

No Surprises

Currently listening/falling in love with: No Surprises, Radiohead cover by Regina Spektor.

Last night, I was dealt the hand of disappointment. Nothing shocking, though it was surprising enough to make my heart leap completely out of my chest for a moment. I sit here, still in bed, on the gray morning right after my pain first leapt upon me....I should be upset. I should feel like an anvil is sitting on my chest, and getting up is the most difficult task. I should be Emily Dickinson, if she actually lived out her poetic life.

But I'm fine. No ellipses. I am actually ok...I woke up, expecting to get kicked all over again with the daylight shining harshly on my reality, but...nothing. I guess what I have been saying this past month, that I have become so sure of myself and independent in the best way, has survived the real test. I know exactly who I am, and I love that person deeply. I'm not asking what's wrong with me, like I normally would, and I'm not trying to change who I am, another charming thing I used to do. I woke up, though wow slap in the face, then went back to the filing system and realized that overnight, my disappointment had moved himself to being a friend. The potential for beautiful friendship still remains. He can be my Louie instead of my Ilsa, if I may once again place myself in Humphrey Bogart's role in Casablanca (so incredible, so parallel. Except for the war thing.)

In it's own way, the rain and dappled light and frantic birdsong of today is it's own kind of beauty. Being kicked in the heart and realizing that I'm completely okay with it? That's beautiful too.

A Magical Dress

The things I lost tonight include the belt to my coat, the comfort in my feet, and my sense of security that I had made peace with my upbringing.

Tonight, me and the magical dress I borrowed from my beautiful friend made our way to the three main parties one will come across in their college career: the cocktail soiree, the dinner celebration, and the apartment shindig. Of course, since it is my life, the cocktail party was strange, the dinner party was bittersweet and also strange, and the apartment party was just..beery. And this beautiful dress, that makes me feel like a movie star from long ago, was with me for the whole ride.

Dinners and apartments are a part of college on a weekly basis-nothing to even blink at. The cocktail party was something else entirely, however. A rented suite in the Ritz Carlton, formal attire required? Am I 20 or 45? Or maybe....14 all over again. I grew up in a wealthy family, with "functions" such as weddings, dinners, and baptisms all requiring a new dress and the squelching of individual thought. Formality was the term, in every single sense of the word. You see, at these social events, you must expect to be judged like a championship race horse in all matters-grooming, dress, family status, behavior, education...elitism to its very essence, thriving in its true home. There is an "expectation" of presence, "expectation" of appearance, "expectation" of behavior...though these events only comprised part of my childhood, it's no wonder that my oddball core was so inherently ready to rebel against them. To be completely honest, being well to do isn't all its cracked up to be sometimes. I am so grateful for every blessing I have gotten, but the shallow and emotionless socialization that has gone with it had always left me searching for more. It doesn't help one bit that I am someone who craves deep connections and lasting, genuine relationships; working only upon the surface is not just against my style, it makes me want to run screaming in the opposite direction until I find someone real to curl up into.

So that's what I grew up around, at least sometimes. I never relished the exposure to the events, though I recognize the valuable lessons I learned through the years about impeccable manners, being an excellent host, and the idea that manners aren't just being polite, they are putting others above yourself and not even letting them notice that they are coming first in your priorities. It was a different way to grow up than most kids, one that makes you grow faster and mature faster in a lot of ways. The sense of entitlement...well, that's up to you. I left that behind, thankfully enough.

The judgment, with strong undercurrents of a readiness towards distaste, was always the hardest thing for me to bear. I have always been an awkward child, battling weight problems and early onset acne. That overweight little Sarah still lives within me today, and...well...she came out a bit at this cocktail party tonight. It was small, maybe 20 people, and entirely too nice for some college kids. It was intimate in a way that I have not been exposed to for years, and the combination of memories long stored and sleep deprivation gave my psyche discomfort that I did not handle to the best of my ability. I pride myself in that I can handle some very tricky social situations with grace (the easy ones, not so much), and tonight...I fell short. I said "classy" entirely too many times, and I did not mingle with the greatest of ease. I let my wonderings about the boy I am smitten with overtake my ability to focus on light conversation and being the bubbly girl I usually am. I would not have made Miss Manners proud, except for the fact that I looked perfect (and more appropriate than any other girl there), and that my exit was more graceful than the Russian ballet. 12 year old Sarah was overwrought with anxiety, and 20 year old Sarah was not ready to deal her a new hand.

I was split, and I was unaware. Such intense confusion, such discombobulation, was out of the ordinary for me-I am typically quite comfortable in my own skin, and I always know who I am. This blindsighted me, and threw my night completely off. In every other way, this should have been a perfect night, but I feel like I threw myself through a complex social loop, completely my fault.

And... it makes me want to cry. Because I don't know where to put myself at all. At. All. And it's ridiculous because I have totally done this to myself but I am just so tired of being a mess! I am happy, happier than I have ever been, but I am also still confused as to where I "fit" (read:nowhere)

One place where I fit? In this dress. This beautiful, perfect dress that fits like it was made for me. It makes me feel like magic, and it has transformed me into a 1940s movie star for one evening. This dress has been through all of my turmoil with me tonight-applause, dress, applause. With all the catcalls and the flirting and the once-overs of the past couple of weeks, I have rebelled against it all and finally become confident in my own beauty, one that stems completely from the inside. I feel most beautiful without a mirror. I feel most beautiful when I am me-and I am going to be me once I shake this formality. And I will bounce back, thank you muchly.

The Campaign Trail

The latest Sarah has been that of a campaigner.

To answer the oft-asked question, I'm not running. I'm not one to be fond of elections, for I fear self promotion as an assignment of assumed arrogance. (I apologize for the extended, though unintentional, alliteration). I deeply admire those who can place themselves in the clutches of inherent competition and politics without losing themselves, without losing their humility or sense of morality for the sake of winning. I am not interested in that type of exposure, and those who can handle it with absolute grace should be commended.

However, I am truly fond of helping people I support and love, and I have therefore found myself in the tornado of campaigning for others. This week, my Uni is in the midst of finding new leadership for the Student Union, a mostly ineffective and unknown governing body on campus. We really, really need some change that supports students, and it feels like a really dynamic election this year. I have been lending my support, footwork, and skill at charming harassment to the slate I think can really do a great job.

My other campaign has been that of helping a friend who is running for office in local politics, an office that has had an uncontested representative for 25 years. If anyone is crazy yet capable enough to do it, my friend Sarah is, and I quickly signed up to help her in any way I can.

This has given me some strange thoughts. The idea of helping others for what will essentially be, foremost, their own personal advancement, is an odd one. I am throwing myself into these helping roles to get someone else elected. Is it because I care deeply about the issues they want to fight for? In some regards, yes, though I am realistic in understanding the differences between campaign promises and practicum. Is it because I deeply care about the people running? That is another piece of it, because I know that what I have to offer will actually help them reach their goals. But, in the end, I don't gain anything immediate from their wins, besides a cursory satisfaction of my competitive nature.

This is different from volunteering, this kind of selflessness. At least in my perspective, I am not directly improving the fortunes of someone or something else. I think my involvement is valuable and important, to the microcosm it will affect. As I have always said, that is enough for me, even if my "enough" is just getting people to care a little bit about....something. I will not degrade my generation as apathetic, for that is a gross oversimplification, but getting any person from any generation to care about something outside of their narrow personal scope is a fight fought for the length of human history. It's a fight that is tough, and it's the toughest fights that are most worth it.

Really.

The most defeating fights, the ones that will cost lifetimes of many soldiers, are those that must be battled till their bitter victory.

Respect for every person? Equality among the genders? Kindness as a social norm?

Fight, fight, fight, and forget about thanks or satisfaction.

But, as I was saying, volunteerism is a different animal than this. Volunteering serves others first, and the personal needs of the soul second. It is perfectly satisfying and, to me, necessary. But not this.

This is...well, it's a lot of work. It's a lot of pride swallowing, shame burying, outgoing boldness that is, at it's core, completely exhausting. Being social is the most draining work that I do, which may just be an aspect of my personality, but it is a truth nonetheless.

I guess I just ponder the idea of helping people for no apparent, pinpoint-able reason, besides the internal idea that it just...feels...right. It feels like change and it feels like it all matters, somehow. That is motivation enough. Is that motivation enough? Are the candidates running for themselves or for the people they serve? As in a debate, in the game of politics, no matter the scale, there is no one answer to any question.

As much as I beg for straightforwardness, sometimes the hullabaloo and whirlwind can play its part. And, I don't really mind my work for naught. My naught is not for naught.

Music for the Melancholy Soul

There's this song, by Will Cookson, called Dead Poets.
Look him up. Look this song up. If anything, look the lyrics up.

"With songs to live by and maintain a heavy heart

There's music for the melancholy soul
But mothers and lovers smiling in the park
Know something you don't"

If I had to choose one song to narrate, soundtrack, and be the description for the movie of my life, this would be it. It's not overtly happy, though neither does it slam you with realism. It has my name and my favorite mindset (dreamy) right in it. It's got it all.

Here I am, summing up a life that cannot be summed up. I plan to never write my conclusion, and I certainly plan to never annotate or summarize or even abbreviate the joys and the deep sorrow.

But, if I must package that all up, then I choose this for the packaging.

Marathon Monday: Another Take

Taken from a conversation...midnight discussions are often the most beautiful.

then you could say how incredible it is to be at the finish
these people have taken a 26 mile journey today
12:01 AM more importantly, they have taken a longer journey to get here
you get to witness their joy, pain, exhaustion, triumph
all at once
those who are running in memory are the ones to watch
their faces...
its like nothing you've ever seen before
its so cool
12:02 AM one guy last year was holding a sign at the end for his gf
it said marry me?
all she could do was nod and smile as he jumped the barriers
this thing...you push yourself in every way
getting to the end proves that you didnt give up
12:03 AM its like being a superhero

The Huffington Post!!!

I am quoted on the Huffington. Freaking. POST.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/03/31/hook-up-culture-at-boston_n_520587.html

Life's work? You begin now.

Admitting my Fears: Part 1 in a Series

Yes, I'm fearful. I'm not talking fears like...fear of deadly spider attacks. I fear that, no doubt, but I am talking about deep emotional fears that get to the core of who I am and shape me as a person.

Last night, I was forced to face one of my fears: that of marrying someone as awful as my father. My mom didn't marry an abusive man; rather, she had no idea what she was getting herself into, and was stuck after that. I never want my life to be ruined by the oppressive influence of someone else, and my strong feelings on that have made me into a person that doesn't trust easily.

So, fear 1: being with someone abusive, manipulative, awful. Psychology tells us that women marry their fathers. May that never, ever be me.

The Boy Breakdown: A Study in Stereotypes

Oh, thank God.

Someone put this into chart form.

Venn diagrams: the only way.

http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs437.ash1/24161_112839222066217_100000204207926_260138_7537770_n.jpg

How many chances do I allow each person until I say enough to the heartbreak?

Punching Bag

I've been doing a lot of punching lately.

And kicking, for that matter.

I've taken up boxing with a punching bag at the gym as of late, and it is the most incredible, addicting stress reliever. It's hard to beat feeling like the most pathetic girl on the face of the planet, only to strap on your hand wraps and out-punch all the fake macho guys at the speed bags next to yours. And I don't even wear real gloves!

Really, though, life has been a blur of stress lately. I have been neglecting normal life and socialization, to an extent, just to make sure I can barely fit it all in. Even as I write this, I am taking time away from the homework that I desperately need to finish. And time from being with my friends that are visiting. And time from sleep, and sanity.

Balance. I'm just not sure it really exists. How can you be the perfect amount of busy? It is always too much, too little, too crazy making in some way. I fear boredom, so I fill up my time with friends and meetings and work. I also fear falling behind. I am a mess, but nothing is new there.

I'm not sure this post has a point, in essence. I have wanted to be reflective and sad and quiet for a few days now, especially with the weather, but I haven't had much time for that. Or, any time. It's day 2 today, aftermath. The aftermath of being slapped in the face by someone who couldn't care less about me. I am so tired of that. So tired of being treated like there is a sign on my forehead that says "Please, use me, mess with me, then humiliate me, because I just love it." That's a long tattoo...but regardless, I keep getting hurt. And you know what? The common denominator in all of this is ME. I leave myself open to meeting people and wanting friendship or dating or whatever the frick it is, and I keep getting punished for it. I finally managed to be open, inviting, whatever it is that I am supposed to be doing, and I keep getting hurt because of that choice.

I'm just...frustrated! And sad. I'm sad-rated. Just, exhausted of the whole thing. I don't play the game or whatnot, but my honesty and willingness to invest in people leaves me ready to be stepped on like crazy. Wouldn't you feel bad leading someone on? I certainly would. I get the excuse that some may not be aware of their actions...but I know that these ones, they have been. Maybe I should stop believing people, believing in people, listening to their words.

But...part of me just CAN'T stop believing in fairytales.

Why Justin Bieber's Musical Career is the Scourge of the Earth, and Other Stories

Ok so I haven't bothered to listen to our newest wunderkind until very recently. Like, today. And what I have found is that this kid takes the loose definition of the title "artist" to an entirely new level. I am done with the music industry at this point. I may never buy music from Def Jam again. Really, Universal, signing this young man and promoting him to his current level is shameful, and an insult to the true artists who deserve attention. I love all types of music, from the trashy and catchy tunes of Jesse Mccartney to the soulful renderings of Cat Power to the vintage sounds of original recordings of the Mamas and the Papas. I have no business condemning those who love popular pop, for I am one of that crowd, but this...this is out of control.

1. Being able to repeat between one and three words in time to a beat is not representative of talent. And I quote, "Like baby baby ohh/like baby baby no/like baby baby ohh." Truly a poetic set. At least Britney Spear's songwriters attempt to tell some sort of story, albeit one about her clubbing. Are we really that afraid to say something, anything, that our songs must sound like THIS?

2. He sounds so young. Like, very, very young. 12 year old boy's choir young. In reality, he is actually only 16 years old, yet his lyrics are hyper sexualized. At 16, his demographic of middle class American teens are still trying to fit in while standing in, trying to figure out who they are while still being very sheltered. It's completely inappropriate for him to talk about dating and sex in the way that he does, and to do it with artists such as Ludacris (he wrote the charming and poetically titled "Move Bitch") and Usher (Love in the Club. Need I say more?) We want our next generation to be leaders, to save us from the mess we are in, and yet we let the music industry guide their minds with a 16 year old who talks about girls, his world.

3. His grammar sucks. U Smile? How many sales would you lose by saying "You Smile"?

4. He represents a culture of obsession, a dangerous trend of corporations exploiting us when we are both our most dramatic and our most vulnerable-the teenage years. Now, more than ever, we live in a culture of free information and readily available instant communication. As young women and men tweet and facebook constantly about this one artist, I wonder how much of their other socialization is going out the window. How many real connections do we forsake, because we spend so much time cyber-communicating on social media? I wonder if there will be a statistic, in 100 years or so, of how much time in our lives is given to the computer and to the media, just like we have a statistic now for how much time is given to sleeping in our lives? Though this is a larger discussion to examine, Mr. Bieber is an indicator of this.

5. This young man is Canadian. No wonder our economy sucks, the Canadians keep taking our money. On that note, stop buying Olympic memorabilia. The warm feelings have faded. Okay, this point was a joke...but had to be included.

6. His lyrics are disgustingly sexist. "I'll be your only guy/You'll be my number one girl". Oh, so I can only have you as my guy, but you can have a lot of girls? This is supposed to be romantic because I'm your highest priority? This is furthering girls' tendencies to have low expectations, and boys' expectations to expect the world and a half from girls. To lower girls' self esteem like this...it's just wrong.

7. "If you listen to the crap we all listened to, it's a surprise we didn't end up as whores." Ok so...let's stop now?

I get it. I get that people listen to anything with a beat, and catchiness is not a bad thing. I just would hope that sometimes, we would allow ourselves to stop and think about the words that we allow to enter our precious minds.

BUcket List

Boston.

The city of my dreams. My home, and no home for me at all. My city in the clouds, I suppose you could say.

This city, this school, this life that I have...it could be gone for me by September. The hard fact is, I don't know where I will be. While I know that I am at peace with whatever happens, writing this as a reality and not as a hypothetical causes me indescribable pain. I have worked so hard for the life I have here, and leaving it all for something I don't know and for a whole new life to build...it scares me more than I can convey with words swiftly typed.

In all of this, I know that the one thing that would destroy me more than change is a pile of regrets. If I have to leave, I will not leave with things left undone, with a partial experience left to dangle like cut rope. I will live my life beyond the good or acceptable; I will live my life to the 98%. Though we can't guarantee perfection, I must get everything I want from my life now, or risk piecing apart my soul with my departure.

So, here it is. A written record of everything I must do here, be it in the next 2.5 months or in the next 2 years. I put this public and concrete to keep myself true.

Deep breath, dive in, nothing to regret.

1. Dance. Whenever I feel like it, wherever I feel like it. On the street or in the elevator.

2. Voice my opinion. Coffee and Conversation? When asked in the WRC? In class? Don't hold back. Be kind, but be totally honest.

3. Let my energy flow. Don't EVER temper my enthusiasm for the smallest conversation. I laugh all the time and I get excited over nothing, and nothing should stop that.

4. Tell him. Ya know, him. The many "hims" that I have never told. Tell the one from freshman year that I am more than just flattered when he flirts with me. Tell the hotshot him that no matter what has made him the way he is, he can't make me feel bad. Tell the class mate that I miss him and his shoulder, and that he has to remember who's important. Tell the new one that even though he was upset before, we should still get coffee.

Tell them all.

5. Fight for what I REALLY think. If someone is sexist, call them out. If you think that something is stupid or hurtful, say something.

6. Push forward the kindness. There is no point in hurting someone else, even unintentionally. Words are weapons, and it is worth the work to keep a reminder to be kind, sweet, or whatever it is that translates well, always.

7. Embrace my own lack of mystery. I'm always so disgruntled that I'm not cooler, better at "with holding the love", or less available. But really, that's just who I am-uncool, spazzy, hyper at times. I'm together in a general sense, but day to day, I ooze enthusiasm. And, so what? I love people. I have gone through so much, and the fact that I can live every day just excited to be on the planet is pretty remarkable. So, my job: embrace that.

8. Push my ambition. I want so much out of life, yet I often have some sort of introversion that keeps me from chasing what I want. That's stupid and I know it. I have to go after my life, not hope that it finds me.

9. Calm down on the sarcasm. It can easily become scathing, and that's not who I am.

10. Meet people. Yes, I know, one of my strange quirks is that I don't like meeting new people. Which is, in fact, ridiculous. If there was ever a time when it was not hard and most beneficial to meet people, college would be that time. So, even if it feels futile, introduce yourself. You never know what can happen. It's always good to "know a guy".

11. Work hard. Work harder. Study in the way that works. Self handicapping is just a way to stand in the path of your own goals. I have goals. Quite a few, and when I pick which one I want, I will have success only with hard work.

12. And speaking of goals...though it's hard, figure them out now. Really. Change is stimulation, and though trying to choose your life all at once seems a bit tremendous, you can do it. It's really the only time to do it, when the decision making piece of your brain is saying GO.

13. Learn to trust people. I have the confidence and the personality, all you need is the wall to break down just a bit. I'm unattainable for all the wrong reasons.

14. Organized, professional, on top of things. All these things make me feel awesome. I let them slip, though. Don't. Be the CEO of your own life? That's a phrase, right? Well literally...manage. I need to manage myself. Or watch the chaos unfold.

15. Butterflies. Try to remember what it feels like to have butterflies in your stomach. Get them back? I'm not sure how much I can control that but...it's nice to feel, is't.

16. This blog. Writing. Let's return.

20

20.

Two. Zero.

I've lived 2 decades on this Earth without great consequence. I can't say that I've really changed anyone, that I know of, though I haven't stayed exactly the same either. At all, really. I've gone through the paces more than I've had happiness, and rutinization has become routine at times in my life. With only those 2 decades of life and experience under my belt, I have felt more and seen more than some people will see in their long lifespans. Even then, I often am stricken with how little I know of the world, how naive I have managed to stay. It's a rarity, that naivete, and a quality I actually like in myself. I feel like a unicorn. Not really, but you get the point. I'm unusual. "Genuinely quirky", as one friend says, awkward, a ball of energy, enthused about life. That's me. At the ripe old age of 20 years old, I am strongly these qualities more than I have ever been.

I've been called old a lot in the past 24 hours. 20...it's a birthday I have dreaded for years. It's not that I actually think I am elderly in any way, though a potent combination of exhaustion and hard work makes me feel quite aged sometimes. It's more the symbolism of adulthood that really affects me, the idea that true maturity has to set in and responsibility is my number one priority. I'm mature, I'm good at being on top of things and being productive, but... I'm scared, really. I'm scared of growing up. Though reality and the pains that life often brings are no strangers to me, it's hard to imagine that I must soon face that pain head on, that I must live with it, unable to escape under the umbrella of the teenage years or hope for the future. My future is now, really. My life is being determined...I use passive voice for a reason. I feel like I am in too much, too complete, control, but have no control. What a disgusting contradiction, and I can barely attempt to explain it. All I can really explain is that...I don't know what my future holds, but for whatever reason, this feels like the biggest turning point in terms of age, like the beginning of the rest. This new decade is a reminder that change is the state which I live in, not something to fear, and that waiting for my big bursting out moment to stumble upon me...it's just a fantasy.

I can't live in fantasy. My life is there for the taking, with all the hard work I will need to do. So, for some, 20 means the "in between birthday". For others, it means getting older and having to be the adult they never wanted to be. For others still, it means that the party rolls on, and 20 is just a stepping stone to fabulosity. For me, it is all of those things, but not one sums it all up. This birthday means the end of my being able to say that I am lost, that I have time. It means that now. Now. Is the time to take control and determine my life to be as I wish. Take control over what I can control.

Yeah, I wish it were that easy. But ease...that's never gonna be my style.

The Meaning of Tears

Do you ever feel like the one thing you need most in the world is just to cry, just to break down, but you can't? Your face is frozen into a frown and it will go no further in expression than stoney silence. Is it shock that makes us this way, or just a defensive mechanism so practiced and attuned that it's second nature to say STOP. Don't cry. Do. not. cry.

Then, other times, the tears pour out of you like some unstoppable spring, no matter how much you just want this onslaught of emotion and hot saltwater to STOP. Everything you didn't want before, every ounce of will and iron that stopped you from even feeling, has completely degraded at the worst time and you are a wreck.

For me, tears come at the most incorrect times. They come when I am out in front of the world, unprepared with a private place or a tissue. They happen for others and they happen for the movies. They are just...wrong. When I need to cry, when a release is the only thing that will suffice, my face is as dry as a pristine sheet of paper. Pale, smooth, blank, and completely unable to get wet without destruction. Destruction of my facade. The ironic thing is, the more that I cannot and will not cry, the more I am destroyed inside.

I scream OUT for my chance to let it all come out of me. I scream on the inside. I am so full, full of other's pain and my own struggles. I am a vessel with limits, and those limits are being pushed upon to their threshold.

I often wonder, is the uniquely human capacity to feel deeply and truly, is it really a gift? A characteristic to point to, and comfort ourselves that our savage behaviors and base nature has some separation from the beasts? Humans are more primitive and savage than any animal, because of our ability to feel and be hurt on a level that these other species cannot even be a part of. We heal from physical hurt. We may never heal from emotional pain. We are the only creatures that can love, that can care and comfort. We are the only creatures who are able to lose the ability to love, to hate even ourselves. How is this a gift, really? Only if we are given the chance to love and be loved is any of the pain we go through even remotely worth it. When we stop trying just to survive and start trying to feel, is when we are vulnerable to death: death of our amorphous feelings, death to the thoughts and emotions that make us who we are, death to our humanity.

Yesterday, I said that our generation has the most to fear and worry about, and someone asked me why. I stated physical reasons: the threat of nuclear attack, the degradation of the planet, the loss of a sense of community. Underlying these immediate reasons, however, I think we are at most, fearful because our humanity is easier to lose now than ever before. The world is as big and as small as it will ever be. We have unending pressure on us to achieve, to be the best, to get by, whatever it is. Do we really have a moment of true, pure, unadulterated bliss, free from any worry? Probably...never. With our 5 second attention span and culture of speed and convenience, we are at constant risk of losing ourselves, if we haven't been trained to hold fast to our freak flags. You must be attractive, you must have money, you must indulge, you must have willpower, you must perform, you must be knowledgeable, you must be ambitious, you must be passionate, you must not care at all, you must conform as you strive for uniqueness....it is all, entirely, too much. Were we really designed to prosper like this? How can I really stay uniquely Sarah when the entire world is violently pushing me in every direction? And who am I, if not a reflection of my immediate culture? And so, we are the generation of anxiety. Anxiety that who we are is never enough, and that we don't even know who we are. What does that even mean, really? Who we are. It's nonsensical. What are we made of? I can't answer that.

My final rhetorical is this: Will we stand for it all? Will we wait for the pressure and the push to just form us and change us, without resistance? Have we completely lost our innocence and curiosity to a time in which information is everywhere and we are told what to know and when? I don't pretend to understand myself completely, but I know one thing: I want to hold on to the innocence I still have. I want to believe that we are not just products of culture, but real individuals with real feelings and experiences and pain and joy that make us who we are.

We are fiercely human. We mustn't let anyone, anything, take that from us.