Second post, dang we on a rolll!!!!! (And by we I mean no one else other than the singular entity that is my body, crouched over in a spider-esque/jack skellington manner overlooking his laptop in the dim, beige lighting of a meretricious lantern bought at Chinatown, listening to Mount Kimbie). This is the second part of the UC prompt, and asked us to describe achievements… I wrote about my achievement being the actual writing of the s-a because, well, I thought it would be creatively intuitive and non cliche… needless to say I didn’t get into UCLA. Big whoop,
It’s funny that of all of the things I have accomplished in my life, nothing feels more genuinely monumental than writing this very essay. Honestly, my life has come to a point in which everything I do feels as though it’s magnified to a power of ten; a seething boil that can be amplified to a bursting eruption by any simple event. On top of college planning, my family and personal troubles, my social life, and the humongous amount of time and energy I put into my rigorous high school classes, it feels as though the pressure being applied onto me is slightly overwhelming – to say the least.
I don’t mean to sound like some pretentious melodramatic, though. I don’t even want to sound like a whining melodramatic either. It’s just that my life has never demanded so much of me up until this point, and I can humbly say that I’m not entirely sure of how I should even react. I realize my “story” may very well sound as generic as any other teenager’s, but I can say with certainty that my disarray of a life is anything but generic. This intimidating part of life – growing up, is indeed different for everyone. For me however, solace is found through doing things like this; writing. It’s always been a prime outlet for me to completely let go of my externalities, and to lose myself in something that I truly love doing. So many emotions are being harbored within me at this point in my life, and I have no way of outwardly expressing them. That’s why I feel as though writing this essay – something so seemingly mundane – is somewhat of a relief, and an achievement, from the uncertainty of how to cope with things; the turmoil of my increasingly monotonous life of headaches, and from the harsh realities of simply being 17.
This very moment is an example of my love for writing. As I hear the birds outside of my window chattering their Sunday gossip, or as I take a drink of my water – simply living; every single facet of life just winds down to a more casual tone when I’m writing; to a thick, molasses – like consistency in which the unrelenting sound of time dispersing is suddenly ceased, and in which the moment of youth that I’m trying so desperately to hold on to is finally captured. As water rearranges itself when spilled out onto a dry, cracked cement floor, filling whichever gap it wishes to, I can spill my thoughts out onto a piece of paper and let them take whatever shape they please, knowing that whoever reads them, a person I will probably never meet in my life, can take them and cogitate upon them, and finally rearrange those same thoughts in the cortices of his/her mind to a point in which they are more than just thoughts; to a point in which those same mere thoughts have evolved into things of everlastingly profound meaning.