Day Dreaming. Reality vs. Reality.

I have this dream, this wish, to do something meaningful and important for the world. I know I have it in me, I know there's something I'm supposed to do, I just can't figure it out. It is because of this that I've always looked toward careers that involve helping people like a doctor or a psychiatrist, but do I want to do these things for a living? There is this fire inside of me, this ambition, I don't think I could sit in an office all day for the rest of my life. I need excitement in my life, danger. After realizing that I want to travel, experience differnt people, experience different cultures, learn different languages, I feel lost, like there is no place in this world for me. Perhaps I could work for national geographic, perhaps I could join the peace corp, perhaps perhaps perhaps. I want to do everything, I want to be everyone. So...what do I do?

Numb

Nothing inspires me anymore. One day you wake up and you're no longer a kid, it's not that easy...to write about anything and nothing. Now I feel this responsibility, I guess you could call it, to write about something meaningful and important, but why? Who defines these things? I was looking over some of the old stories and plays and poems I use to write, so simple. I was happy then. I wrote because it made me happy, and it was just that, this feeling that made it seem like everything was beautiful. But now, now that reality has taken these things away from me, I feel lost. I've become numb, I've become this way to survive. My feelings were everything to me once, I felt everything, it was my power. I was all emotion, I was poetry. If I left myself open like this now, the world would kill me. I felt all of the sadness of the world once, but that was the last thing I felt. I need to escape this place.

Something Sentimental

This is an essay I've been writing all year in my head and just recently put it on paper. It's interesting how perfect it is in your head, I guess that's why it took me so long to get the guts to write it down. I was right though, it isn't nearly as good as I imagined it. It started off as one of those college essays, you know, write about someone who has inspired you or had an influence on you. But over time it turned into something else. So, here it is. It's a very rough draft, so, just to make excuses.


Daughters Are Forever

This piece of paper would be rendered useless in the hands of a man; not a father, not a brother, not a son. The ties, the connections, the understanding, the things that are born out of a woman and the things that live in a daughter. The natural obligation between mother and daughter to support each other for life. I am the life of and she is the life, I was the dream and she dreamt of me, I will be the pride and she will be proud. She is my mother and I am her daughter.

When you're growing up, you don't see your mother as Tammy or Diane or Jennifer, you see her as mom; a perfect image not yet disturbed. When I first realized that my mother was an actual person, a person with faults, a person with fears, a person with doubts; an array of feelings conjured inside me. It hurt me, it confused me. However, the strangest feeling that I felt that day was equality and therefore power. My mother could be wrong, my mother could make mistakes, my mother was the same as me. The arrogance born with this revelation didn't give me the right to disrespect my mother, but it put me in the position to question her. This was the time, the moment, my mother wasn't only my mother, but she was my best friend too. I got to know her as a person, this wonderful person, weak and strong, brave and scared, right and wrong, silly, happy, funny. She is the best person I ever knew, know, or will know. It was through this discovery that I realized, finally, after all these years of having her as my friend, that I was right all along...she is perfect, perfect for me.

A son devotes his life to another woman, another family, but a daughter is where your heart is and where it always stays. My mom gave me her heart and I've kept it, I've lived it, and I'll always love it. It beats in my chest but it does not belong to me, it's hers and it will always be hers.

I wouldn't show her this piece of paper, I wouldn't read it out loud, I wouldn't sing it like a song, I don't have to. This is for the mothers that died, this is for the mothers that work all the time, this is for the mothers that never had a daughter, this is for the mothers that lost their chance to. Just in case you didn't know or never cared to find out, daughters are forever.

Ironic

And I said I would never have a blogl. I'm sure I'll lose interest in it, just like everything else.