When I was in middle school, I read about ridiculously good looking spies, aiding in the cause of protecting art. In high school, I found myself drifting towards books with a little less adventure, but I read about people who were the adventure, how they grazed the literal fabric of time in the between their fingers or battled against the injustices of the controlling. As time grew by and as I found less time to dream and expand my muscle of imagination, the stories that I created were painted with the base of my sorrows and joys. I cried about how I felt so lonely in my own mind and with other people. I furiously compiled words together to display my anguish with my failures, leaving space for the last sentence where I spelled out that I will try again. I happily wrote about my first love and filled with sorrow as I wrote about my heartbreak that was filled with naivety. And with shaking hands, I wrote about loss, grief and panic. The words know and hold me, cradling me into the comfort of the freedom of expression.
Now that I’m in college, I browse through the books and look upon them as study guides, a path of inspiration that I could gather. What could those who made it past the publishing press be writing about today? Books lining the shelves with instances of divorce, the chance and suspicion of an affair, and teenagers with too much unreasonable angst that their parents who might as well give up. Where has the hope gone, the spark of beauty in the world? Where has the simplicity of enjoying the beauty in the common gone? Who is the beholder of the words, even though it’s still free when it feels like it goes with the ebbs and flows of the damned society?
I apologize if any of you have had to deal with the misfortunes of life, but as your mother or someone of wisdom may have told you, we always learn from mistakes. Stand back up and try again. If we consistently preach about the comfort of home, with matching cushions for each season, then wouldn’t our backbone get weak?
You’re at a dinner party with a mix between your dear friends, co-workers and their friends whom you just met 45 minutes ago. To your left, someone whispers about a boring life despite recently married. To your right, someone gloats about their new promotion while three other people jealously congratulate them, turn to their spouses and tell them that they definitely don’t deserve it. And you? You smile and keep drinking, hoping that the hour would pass and everyone would pat their bellies and file out of the door where you’ll follow in suit — the proper etiquette.
Stupidity may be bliss, but as our mothers lovingly told us, we’re unique with a beautiful story behind us. The world has enough shit happening. Why don’t we help it out by adding some more colors?
Written: 7/7/17 3:00pm