I turn fifteen in exactly sixteen days. That, in and of itself, is terrifying. Difficult to explain, really, but I am a writer — that is my job — to explain, to entertain, to engage. And so, here I stand, holding my innermost pains out to you all.
I may not be able to walk through those doors and breathe as I should — I have no conscience when it comes to my own heart, and so it may explode, painting my bones with dark blood — blue, until it spills out of me — just as I learned in school. I could not think of a better platform to express my fear, and so I have relocated my entire being to this website — packed up and left my bedroom and stored my soul in the curving edges of words — the slopes and curls and shelter I reach for in-between them.
I am not ready to face my own demise — I am not ready to step through the doors of my new school and call myself a "High School Student" (all capitals, because this is important) yet. I am not prepared for the benign smiles, the lingering looks, the disdain of upperclassmen that will surely come, based upon being thrust into the fray at the bottom, and also with my own reputation. My mother says in return to that, that in some ways, high school is a chance to reinvent yourself, to begin again. I don't disagree, but how can I, truly, tell the world that I feel like this, that I look like this, that I live like this, without their own old, stained memories of me clouding their judgment?
Mom says they aren't paying attention to my plight, and shan't. I tell her that teenagers balance on strings of candy floss, strung together with spite. My head quotes scientific studies at me — forty percent of all of our memories are incorrect. My heart retaliates with the other sixty.
I've been waiting for a chance, I suppose, to disregard my anxiety — it isn't new, after all. My head was the same, in the summer at the end of my fourth-grade year. I assure you, however, that my reaction to a new environment was less ... poetic. Diplomatic, if you will allow me the pretense. I applaud you all, those who have been through their first year and beyond, for your dedication. I also remind you that intelligence is not measured by the grades you receive, and to not be hard on yourself when you are beaten by those who should not have. Everyone is good at something, and writers do not have a talent for patience. They do, however, have a knack for procrastination, so don't forget to congratulate yourself. After you water those plants, sweep that floor. ;) I'm still finding my place, and I don't know if I have quite yet, but I'm trying. I'm still trying.
Oh, yeah, and I'm still kind of terrified of the prospect of driving and dating?? I get my license in not even three months and I've got a boy I'd love to take out, though I am exceptionally shy when it comes to that sort of thing. Send help.
-Infinite
I may not be able to walk through those doors and breathe as I should — I have no conscience when it comes to my own heart, and so it may explode, painting my bones with dark blood — blue, until it spills out of me — just as I learned in school. I could not think of a better platform to express my fear, and so I have relocated my entire being to this website — packed up and left my bedroom and stored my soul in the curving edges of words — the slopes and curls and shelter I reach for in-between them.
I am not ready to face my own demise — I am not ready to step through the doors of my new school and call myself a "High School Student" (all capitals, because this is important) yet. I am not prepared for the benign smiles, the lingering looks, the disdain of upperclassmen that will surely come, based upon being thrust into the fray at the bottom, and also with my own reputation. My mother says in return to that, that in some ways, high school is a chance to reinvent yourself, to begin again. I don't disagree, but how can I, truly, tell the world that I feel like this, that I look like this, that I live like this, without their own old, stained memories of me clouding their judgment?
Mom says they aren't paying attention to my plight, and shan't. I tell her that teenagers balance on strings of candy floss, strung together with spite. My head quotes scientific studies at me — forty percent of all of our memories are incorrect. My heart retaliates with the other sixty.
I've been waiting for a chance, I suppose, to disregard my anxiety — it isn't new, after all. My head was the same, in the summer at the end of my fourth-grade year. I assure you, however, that my reaction to a new environment was less ... poetic. Diplomatic, if you will allow me the pretense. I applaud you all, those who have been through their first year and beyond, for your dedication. I also remind you that intelligence is not measured by the grades you receive, and to not be hard on yourself when you are beaten by those who should not have. Everyone is good at something, and writers do not have a talent for patience. They do, however, have a knack for procrastination, so don't forget to congratulate yourself. After you water those plants, sweep that floor. ;) I'm still finding my place, and I don't know if I have quite yet, but I'm trying. I'm still trying.
Oh, yeah, and I'm still kind of terrified of the prospect of driving and dating?? I get my license in not even three months and I've got a boy I'd love to take out, though I am exceptionally shy when it comes to that sort of thing. Send help.
-Infinite
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