She

She couldn't have children, but the sight of them filled her heart with passion and streaked her cheeks with tears.

She lived alone, but her soul longed for a partner, a sense of togetherness that was unlike any mere friendship.

She was not beautiful by any means, but everything was art to her, and she found beauty in the dirt beneath her feet.

She was not one to interact, but she had a deep fascination for people; their interests, their back-stories, their secret desires.

Her soul never slept, but when the moon was out was when she was most herself, and truly alive.

Depths lie beneath her skin, but all that displayed to the world was a shallow, expressionless mask, and this was what bothered her most.

Team Amelia

There are times when I feel so out of touch with the social realm that I want to crawl in a ball within the dark enclosed depths of my own self. I don't want  to be an individual. There's too much power, too much responsibility. Can't someone else lead my life? Someone bold, someone who knows what they're doing. It's too frightening doing it by myself. I wish my being was a team. We could rely on each other for everything. There would be just enough people within me for each unique skill necessary for life. There could be an Amelia for socializing. She could resist awkwardness like a pro, and have the power to not take anything personally. A logical Amelia to get everything done- get the homework done, get the bills paid, blah blah blah. Then, there would be the real Amelia. Now, she couldn't really get anything practical done, but she could write like a machine, she loved good music, and she thrived on her own. Her good qualities would be enhanced, while the not so good ones would be countered out by the other Amelia's. Yeah. That's who it should be.

Journal Entry #3: Daydreaming in History

 5/14/14

In history as Mr. Frediani babbled on about war and everything, with the lights burnt out in a shadow, my mind drifted off to places far beyond my seat. I imagined someone poking a finger decisively on my forehead, as if there was a red button fixed there, causing me to melt. My inner self drained out of my body's form, and spilled onto the tiled floor. It oozed over to the seat diagonal to me, climbing up the metal bars that held the desk together, colorful and liquid-like, and formed itself back together into a curly haired brunette boy about my age. He had a very Arabic look about him- an oblong nose and thick bushy eyebrows. He wore a plain gray shirt, jeans, and black tennis shoes. He flipped around, hazy, and looked at me with a smile. We communicated telepathically. I asked him why he was there, who he was. He responded by saying he represented my imagination, my subconscious, and everything I ever wanted. I looked at him admirally, and he melted away, returning to my own form. Everything I ever wanted, huh? I suppose that makes sense.

A Glimpse Into My Childhood

One lazy afternoon, my mom took me out to run errands, just like we did every week. I sat snugly in the back, strapped into my car-seat gazing out the window, watching the cars and houses as we zipped past them. We were listening to KFOG as mom rambled on about things I didn't understand, like taxes and dad's job. Still, though, she was lighthearted, and it was comforting to listen to her voice. We stopped at a stop sign somewhere in Pleasant Hill, and mom directed my attention out the other window.

"You see that building over there?" she pointed giddily. "That's where you're going to preschool!"

I froze. Oh, God, no... I had seen school on TV, and it looked awful. I just figured that since I had already gone 5 years without it, I would never have to go. But no. I was wrong.

We continued to drive, still listening to corny pop music, like we always did. I pretended I was fine, but on the inside, I was panicking. I would have evil teachers. I would have the frightening potential of getting F's. I would have to actually be by myself for the first time in my life. Of course, in retrospect, it was just preschool, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined it to be. But I did leave the golden era of being a toddler. I could no longer hang around the house all day eating popsicles, getting intentionally dizzy in the entrance way (there was always plenty of space for that), watching pointless TV, or teasing my cat. Suddenly, I had responsibilities to attend to. I had places I needed to be, and I would for the rest of my life.

Preschool, contrary to prior belief, was actually quite fun. We were separated into groups- yellow, red, blue, and green. I was in the green group, however, I remember wanting so badly to be in the yellow group. I'm not sure what it was, but it seemed established that the yellow group was the cool group. Anyone who was anyone was in the yellow group. But no. I was in boring old green. I think this dawned a series of events that would define me as not ever being in the "cool" group. I used to be really upset about it, but I've grown comfortable in my "green group". That's where my home is. I was never "yellow" material, anyway.

There was nothing particularly special that defined what group you were in. They all just had different rooms and had things to do at different times. My favorite room was the singing room, which is strange, because I don't have any special talent for singing now. In fact, I'm certifiably terrible. But I remember loving how it felt to make music together. It was the only room that every group went to at the same time, so no matter how cool you were, you sat side by side on the parallel strips of tape on the carpet. We would sit down, antsy like children, while one of the teachers played the piano, and we'd sing public domain songs. Every little voice in the room burst out into song, totally vulnerable, and equal to their preschool brethren. I just found it empowering somehow. It's funny how little we change as we get older. You know? We may change in some things, like how we look, and what we want, but in the end, when you look deep inside yourself, you haven't changed at all. You're still affected by your innocent memories. And back then, there in that music room, I was beginning to discover my deep passion for making music, being apart of something, and being creative. Those things would never change. I'm still that little girl.

I also learned about the concepts I hated. When we were done singing, our group would go into this game room with all these puzzles and little science experiments displayed on tables; mind-trick kind of things. Sure, it was fun playing with some of the things they had out, but I remember losing interest quickly. I would look out the window and watch the swaying trees outside. I have the distinct memory of observing a girl with a pony-tail tied straight up, vertical to her head, sprouting outward like a fountain. I found her hair more fascinating than the experiments. I think it was there that I realized that logic was not my strong suit, nor did it grasp my interest. It's not that I was stupid or naive to the mechanics of how physical things worked, (although you can't ask much from a 5 year old) it's just that I preferred the arts. I never liked things having  just one right answer. I liked how when you were singing, you weren't commended for being right, but you were commended for participating. For being yourself. That idea always appealed to me.

When we weren't in a room "learning", we were outside having recess. They had a little playground with things to climb on and whatnot, and they would take out various toys to play with. Although I loved to run around and be outside just like any other kid, my absolute favorite pass-time during recess was to play My Little Pony. I had two friends in preschool; Olivia, and another girl who I can't for the life of me remember the name of. I always felt terrible about that, but I believe it started with a C, and in my defense, it wasn't a typical name like Olivia, it was a name with a lot of syllables and consonants. But regardless of their names, we would take the plastic ponies into the singing room (it just had such a friendly air to it- the sun streaming through the windows and onto the carpet, smiley faces on the walls) and we would pour them all out to play with. We'd give them all ridiculous and frankly unoriginal names, like "Pinky" and "Yellowy", but we made up for it by giving them interesting personalities and families. That was what I loved so much about playing with them; I loved the stories. I loved making up the details of their lives. I loved making one in love with another. They weren't just ponies, they were people. It was the thing I looked forward to doing every day.

Not a day passes that I don't linger on my childhood for a moment. I'm constantly reminded of it whenever I pass by that building, the one that mom told me so excitedly I would be going to school at. And now I'm almost finished with high school. I may have gotten taller, less cute, and more cynical, but I truly am still in that green group, longing for the next song to sing.

Ode to Courtney

She stands an inch and a half taller than me, and always has. She has thick, dark brown hair that curtains beyond her shoulders. She has icy blue eyes that stab you like knives, and she frames them with hipstery 60's librarian glasses she gets complimented on often. She has very pale skin that burns very easily, but it almost gives her a pure look to her, like a statue. She's partial to retro clothing, which works well for her because she does a majority of her shopping in thrift stores. She has modelesque teeth because of the crap-load of work that was done to them when she was younger. She has trouble understanding emotions, but is shockingly a stickler for giving advice. She has a sarcastic, offbeat sense of humor that meshes quite well with mine, which is yet another reason we're best friends. Like me, she's constantly contemplating the deep, unasked questions of life, and we can therefore go on for hours philosophizing about the world. She's my best friend because we're two estranged souls in a sea of normal, and the light of our worlds will eternally shine off-center.

20 Years From Now

Imagine yourself 20 years from now. You're sitting on someone's back patio at a BBQ, a dinner party, whatever it may be. Maybe you're married, maybe you're not. The sun's streaming through the branches in the trees, and the wind's blowing gently and warmly, passing by your skin. Wherever your family may be, you sit alone, amongst women and men of various ages. This would've terrified you years before, without the aid of a close one. But not this time. You've grown to love chit-chatting with people to just catch up with them. And you sit there satisfied, casually bringing up a basis for conversation.

"Can you believe how much we've all grown?" a woman in her 50's laughs. "Well, I mean, how much we've all matured and grown up. How much time has gone by. Can you believe that?" some people nod, some make the mm-hmm of agreement they often would use after a religious comment.

"I know, it's crazy..." someone responds. You don't dive in too deep about it, for the deed has been done, but the silence implies you've gotten everyone thinking. Life goes by much faster than it feels in the moment. When you look back and think of how much time you sped through, you feel a sense of accomplishment somehow.

You giggle to yourself, and watch the kids contently as they play in the grass.

My Quest For Authenticity

The other day in my blue spiral notebook, I began to write about the person I truly wanted to be. And what I've found is that essentially, I want to be me, only not so kept to myself. I wish I was more expressive. I said that I wanted to be a painter. I wanted to like being messy. I don't necessarily want want to be considered "scatter-brained" as artists tend to be known as, but I want it to be obvious to people who I am. I don't really want it to be a secret anymore. I would love everyone to know from the moment they meet me that I'm eccentric, artsy, and charismatic. I wish I was confident.

You know, I totally don't give a solitary crap about what I wear. But there are times that I kind of wish I did. I don't want to care a lot- the LAST thing I want to be is a flippin' fashionista, I just wish I could be one of those people who just got highlights and a mow-hawk (maybe not that far, but you get the point). I wish I could wear really retro clothing- like a 60's dress, or 70's hippie garb. Because in all honestly, I'm in love with that stuff. But no. Because I'm a timid wimp, even the way I dress makes me look boring.

Let me tell you what I'm talking about: you know Iona from Pretty in Pink? How she was always oozing with confidence, and it was made blatantly obvious that she was interesting by the way she dressed? She went all over the grid for outfits, and she honestly rocked every one of them. Her confidence, her artsiness, her interestingness... they're all qualities I've been working to possess.

But, as I've come to realize, there's a fine line between "good weird" and "bad weird". Sometimes I embrace the eccentric to such a degree that I scare myself. It's almost as if I've gone one estranged song overboard on the normalcy scale, and I feel like I need to run back to the most common thing I can think of for safety. But why? Really, what is normal? Whenever I ponder over the most normal things typical teenagers embrace nowadays, I think of these:

-lives in the suburbs

-isn't religious at all, perhaps even atheist (or loose Christian)

-gets decent grades

-has strict, annoying parents

-has Instagram, Snapchat, Vine, etc. and is on constantly

-has a dog

-likes bacon, or says they do to be clever, I guess

-has a boyfriend/girlfriend, and has had several in the past

-has a Facebook, but rarely uses it anymore

-has their permit, maybe their license, and some kind of job

-has gone to teen parties

-has gotten drunk for fun

-needs Starbucks every morning

-uses startling swears in regular conversation

-is democratic or not political

-has AP whatever it is because "it looks good on college applications"

-is in some kind of sport

-has clothing from Hollister, Forever 21, etc.

-speaks in memes and internet references

-loves horror movies

-has an iPhone

...I made this list a while back based on casual observations I've made on the stereotypical teenager these days. And it occurred to me that this arbitrary list of requirements is my personal concept of what society believes is "normal." So why on Earth would I want to run there?! Perhaps because I don't relate with any of these concepts on the list, and that means that I'm almost too weird. Ya get my drift?

My taste, I've realized, goes off the grid. I had no idea until recently that my sense of style was so bizarre. I find myself drawn to unnaturally colored hair and ratty worn rags for clothing. I didn't know I liked that sort of thing. To be honest, I always saw myself as more of a basic jeans and a tee shirt kind of girl. And outwardly, I am. But apparently, if I had no social boundaries, I would dress like a complete hippie. And, sometimes, like a 90's grunge lover. And occasionally like a suburban mother from the 50's. And everything in between.

I think my newly found desire to dye my hair the colors of the rainbow came from movies like Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The heroines dye their hair regularly, and interestingly enough, in both movies, their love interests describe them as "impulsive" because of it. Why does that idea inspire me? Maybe because I'm not impulsive at all, and I wish I was, because that would make me interesting. I already wrote about my desire to be "me, but louder". I find myself wanting to save being anything until I'm old enough to be "an individual". Maybe when I'm moved out and I get paid, I can actually buy clothing I like. Wow, and it doesn't even have to be clothes! Furniture, movies, CD's, posters...FOOD... I'd have my own weird little sanctuary! Wow, I'd make a really strange adult... I can just imagine inviting people into my rabbit hole... It would be flooded by old culture and deteriorating couches... I would love it, of course, but would it ever make me want to run? Would it, perhaps, be too eccentric?

This is my problem. Finding a satisfying balance between "normal", who I really am, and who I'd rather be. But maybe normal doesn't matter. Whatever normal really is, it should have no affect on the person you really are. I've never been one who duplicated what was cool. I do, however, have a definite style that I've come up with all on my own, and there's something kind of wonderful about that. Just becoming your own individual, even though it's scary. Sometimes, finding yourself is just fascinating.