I am clean.

It's been forty minutes. I've spent the past forty minutes attempting to honor Maya Angelou, but the truth is, I cannot. I cannot fathom the words to describe her literary influence, her social justice activism, her all-around talent. I cannot weave together the right sentences to form a post to do her justice. 

As a ten year old, I was not yet introduced to an attitude of cynicism and skepticism. I was innocent and youthful, not yet aware of all the issues within society. My biggest problem was my broken crayons, and the worst drama I was involved in revolved around a Girl Scout Cookie scandal. I read chapter books from the "big kid section" in bookstores, and I was obviously a grown woman with my double-digit age. My goal was to eat the most slices of pizza and draw the prettiest picture with chalk. I did my homework and practiced my piano. My childhood was lovely -- it was filled with things the stereotypical American-Chinese daughter is known to do, and it had a wonderful balance between fun and work. 

I was ten years old when I first read one of Maya Angelou's poems. It told a story of a caged bird -- one that had its wings clipped and feet tied. It told the story of a bird, singing for freedom and standing on the grave of dreams. When I was ten years old, I told myself that we are all caged birds; we all dream of the day when the bars of rage melt into the open sky as we leap into the wind. I was ten years old when I was introduced into a whole new world. 

I am sixteen years old, and I am now rereading the story of the caged bird. Heart pounding and goosebumps forming, I look back onto the past six years of my life. I don't think I've had an exceptionally exciting or unique life; if anything, my life measures pretty average and mediocre, but it'd be a lie to say I haven't had some memorable experiences. But all in all, these past six years are a blur. I have been the caged bird, dreaming of the breeze and the sighing trees. There have been times when I hear my fearful trill, longing for a better tomorrow. I have felt isolated, in captivity, but today, my cage has dissipated into the atmosphere, and I am a free bird. 

Maya Angelou is one of the most influential people in my life, and her passing has affected me in ways I don't quite understand. I'm overcome with a feeling of inevitable sadness, but most of all, I feel clean. Not that I don't shower every day and wash my hands as much as possible, but my soul has been stained by anxiety and angst. My bones have become tangled by the barbed wire of anger, and my blood has formed waves of ferocity, but today, everything is different. I am clean.

"And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our sense, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed." - Maya Angelou

I can be better. I can do more. I can be more. 

"I created myself," she once said. "I have taught myself so much". 

Maya Angelou, you have done so much more than just teach yourself. You have be the guidance of millions as they struggle through their lives. You have been the watering hole for those fainting under the heat of prejudice. You have created yourself, but you have also created a more conscious future. You have taught me to create myself. 

As I read the multitude of articles that spread throughout social networking sites, I am reminded of all the exceptional things Maya Angelou accomplished. On top of her literary achievements, she was also a professor, a singer, a dancer, an activist, and an actress. She was whoever she wanted to be, and I find solace in knowing that. She spent her life overcoming her obstacles, staring adversity in the face and standing her ground. She fought for women's rights, for Civil Rights, for human rights. She worked to make the world a better place, and even after today, her actions have been ingrained into humanity. She taught me to be proud of who I am. She taught me to teach others to believe the same thing. She spread a blanket of unification and purity throughout the world, and her legacy will pulse for generations to come. 

As the tears are streaming down my face, I can feel myself wearily smiling. Maya Angelou is truly one of the most amazing people to grace this world, and she will most definitely be remembered. There's no possible way I can do her justice through a mere blog post, but I will honor her through my life. I will do good everywhere and anywhere. I will embrace myself, my friends, my family. I will live passionately. I will adjust myself accordingly. I will live a life strung together by my experiences. I will open the cages of those trapped. 

Rest in peace. 

Moving around furniture has never felt so sentimental.

It's the first official day of summer, and that marks the annual reorganization of my room. I give myself twenty four hours to completely revamp my haven of paradise into whatever I desire. Interestingly enough, each year, my style seems to take a complete 180 turn. Within the past few years, my room has been decorated from  magazine posters of the Jonas Brothers and High School Musical to doodles probably overcompensated for in its so-called brilliance and artistry. My walls have been kissed by the millions of hipster-chic pictures that made up Seventeen and Teen Vogue, but sometime last year, I decided, on a whim, to paint my room. Before painting, I relied on the color of the magazines and posters to bless my room with pops of the rainbow, but afterwards, I felt like a woman. No more cutouts and stickers to cloud up the spaces of my walls; I wanted something sophisticated and classy -- something that would truly define me as the grown-up I was: a high school upperclassmen. So I stripped my walls and rid it of any remnants of tape, nails, and glue. When I was done, I thought for sure that I'd be satisfied with the designs. I was right for the most part. I'm quite content with my furniture and basic accessories, but when I woke up on the faithful first day of summer 2014, I knew something was off. Turns out I have a lot more growing to do before I can accurately brand myself as a woman.

Of course though, summer wouldn't be complete without the initiative Netflix marathon and binge watching. I decided to honor the blessed feeling of sleeping in and comfortably wading in my comforters by enjoying the most recent season of Psych. But after hours of watching a quasi-psychic detective solve countless murders, I knew I could conjure enough energy to be more productive than a burrito, so I got to work. Four comforter sets later, I felt hopeless. I couldn't even decide on a bed set, so how was I supposed to completely redecorate my bedroom?

9 hours later, I have a semi-new bedroom, and a fleeting feeling of utter jubilance, but out of those nine hours, it's safe to say that at least 3 of them were spent cleaning out the drawers in my desk, the papers in my binders, and the pile of papers I hoarded. Through those, I found myself feeling nostalgic, vengeful, melancholy, and blissful. I ventured upon old assignments from seventh grade, letters written to me out of spite from ex-friends-current-enemies, cute little awards from middle school, and journal entries outlined in pure happiness. Every single paper, plastic trophy, and assignment took me back to whatever time it was dated. I could feel myself reminiscing that time I got an 80 on a history quiz, or that time I submitted my essay in for a competition, or even that time I got so angry, I ripped the papers I was venting on. And looking back, I know I'm not a woman -- not even close; I'm simply a high school student on my way to experiencing all that life has to offer, but I'm definitely not a child. I'm in the process of finding out who I am, of defining myself, of configuring all the little kinks that will work and piece together to truly form my identity.

So after a few hours of nostalgia and seventy-five gasps and "Oh my god!"'s later, I threw out the old chemistry and literature papers, changed my bed sheets, painted my dresser, and proudly stood at my doorway -- hair (barely) in bun, and dust on shorts -- admiring all that my room had become yet again this year. I felt a scent of growth and development engross my room and seep through my carpet. And then I decided to play some relaxing music and just lie on my floor, and I closed my eyes and felt my smile dominate my body. I knew I wasn't at the finish line; I still have plenty ahead of my time. As a whole generation, my peers and I still have college, grad school, a career, our first wild night, our first (or twenty-third) mental breakdown, our first car accident, our first random make out, and even our first encounter with our future husband or wife. We have so many firsts to come that it'd be so overwhelming to think that we are grown-up, but we aren't children. We're past the days of no homework and nap time at school. We've outgrown being able to dive into the 3 feet part of the pool and ask if anyone actually has cooties. We're no longer the blank canvas that coincides with childhood. We've been handed the paintbrush of experience and emotions, friendships and relationships. We've splattered paint on corners and delicately brushed up on the textures of backgrounds. We've slowly started to master the piece that will become our identity -- our maturity, our manhood or womanhood.

We've emptied out past drawers of emotional and psychological baggage, and we've reorganized and redecorated ourselves. We grow every year, and every year we think back on our innocence the year before. We are today's youth, and we are on our way to being the next moms and dads, employers, and politicians of the world, but for now, we're still wrestling with adolescence and naivety. When we're sixteen and almost seniors, we're growing. When we're twenty-three and lurking at a party, we're growing. When we're fifty-seven and waiting to babysit our grandchildren, we're growing. Every year, we'll redecorate the chambers of our hearts and the veins of our personalities because every year, we grow.

Sadly, I don't have any goggles.

It almost reached 80 degrees today. Now, that doesn't seem so historic, especially for Georgia, a state that fluctuates between Arctic and Sahara temperatures, but lately we've regressed back to autumn weather. Luckily enough though, we were blessed with some refreshing sunshine and some magnificent breezes today. Because of the way the certain chain of events lined up, my brother decided he wanted to go swimming, and for some odd reason, my mother agreed. I came down just in time to see them leave, and I got dragged into it all. No complaints from me, but the timing was oddly coincidental.

So a swimsuit change and a short car ride later, we arrive at the pool, and the first thing my brother does? Jump in, of course. I, on the other hand, decided to take a more tactical approach and slowly waddle my way into the freezing abyss of ice. While my brother was fooling around accidentally swallowing chlorine pool water and having water fights with himself, I was conjuring up the courage to stick my head underwater. Thirty minutes later, the deed was done.

The moment I jolted my head under the water, it was as if my stress melted away -- like my anxiety-coated exterior was penetrated by the piercing bubbles to a layer of carefree euphoria. And soon after, I began floating around on my back, letting the sun devour the worries that lay in my skin, and truly living in the moment. I've lived my life for the past three years in constant worry for the future: how hard is the test going to be next year? What is the final going to be like? How's my GPA compared to hers? Do colleges accept that as AP credit? What am I going to write for my college essays? I've spent so many hours incessantly and neurotically researching colleges and figuring out ways to maneuver my way around my lack of a good SAT score that I forget that life is going on at the moment. I forget that there is a present -- that there is a day and time to enjoy before I lose it. I fear that one day I will reminisce over my youth and realize that there is a gap from my naive childhood to my experienced adulthood. I feel the wrath of a giant black hole swallowing any semblance of an adolescence because so far, it has been plagued by nerves and paranoia, stress and anxiety, hardheartedness and solemn denials. It's safe to say that I have a few too many coping mechanisms saved in my mental bank in case I don't get into one of my top colleges. But it's things like that which ignite a flame of concern in me -- students these days are trying so desperately to shape their future into a stable one that they don't realize their future is still determined by present time.

It's all about the five year, ten year, fifteen year plan. It's about what rank and percent you graduate in from high school. It's about the college you attend, the graduate school you enroll in, and the job opportunities and networking chances you're lucky enough to find. It's about who you meet and when you meet them, and it's about where you are in life. Somehow, life has become a picture that each individual has cut into tiny little pieces. And it's like the puzzle pieces have gotten so torn, ripped, and dirty through the first few years of high school that they're almost impossible to piece back together. So what now? What happens to the plan that we all worked on so diligently?

As a youth so ingrained in a society focused on the future, we need to learn how to embrace spontaneity and cut around the edges a bit. If our puzzle pieces don't fit together all the way, then we can shave off the sides, or add a little structure to the edges. We don't have to follow an outline, a rubric, or a syllabus. We have the capability of letting loose, of being a teenager, of dunking your head underwater and blowing bubbles in the pool. We are too busy putting on sunscreen and making sure we have enough towels for everyone that we never have time to cannonball into the water and chase each other around. I'm not saying to dive straight in, head first because we all know the ramifications for that. I have plenty of bruises to vote against that idea, but as one of the most competitive and stressed out generations in history, we need to learn to accept that it's okay to let loose and feel the crashing water collide against your face and sync our heartbeats with the pace of our kicks.

Sadly, I don't have any goggles. So it won't be the clearest of times, and there won't be a visible destination always, but life moves along just as swimmingly.

But I am just a mere high school student.

There are some nights where I wallow in self-pity and self-loathe via Netflix binge watching and stress eating. Tonight is not one of those nights.

The past weekend has been emotionally exhausting. Everything that could have happened, happened, and everything seemed to break down at once. However, this weekend, I discovered one of the most alluring quotes.

"For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth."

I have repeated it to myself probably over fifty times now, and I have spread it on social networking sites, texted it to my friends, and even made a cute little virtual poster of it. Something about that quote really resonates with me, and I cannot shake the idea that I am a star. I don't mean I am the undiscovered actress Hollywood has been waiting for, and I definitely don't mean that I'm the little gold sticker that I would've walked on hot coals for in first grade. Rather that, but I have grown accustomed to a hollow feeling in my chest. I stand and walk and prance and trip and yet, I feel empty inside. Sometimes, I even feel weeds growing around my rib cage. Sometimes, I'm convinced that if someone picks me up and shakes me around, they'll hear the remnants of petals and thorns rattle around my vacant heart. I am a star because I am made of millions of interconnected little particles, floating and radiating in a chamber of gas. I am a star because I am one of billions in one galaxy. I am a star because while I may feel like I am bright, shining, and captivating creation, I know I will burn out one day, and then I will be darkness.

There have been plenty of times in life where I've felt like I've made a difference. I've held the hands of countless individuals as they faced dauntless tasks. I've volunteered for hundred of hours at community service projects. I've educated peers and friends on politics and social justice topics. I've donated money for natural disaster projects, and I've sent funds to children without the opportunity to pursue a formal education, yet I am not satisfied. I am overwhelmingly irrelevant and disgustingly insignificant.

Everyday, I feel as if I come upon another corrupt institution in society. As a high school student, I am surrounded by the depravity that correlates with the American education system. I can see the essence of learning turn to regurgitation and memorization, all for the sake of standardized testing. I can see the arts wilting away at the power and spectre of STEM careers, and I can feel the passion of gaining knowledge draining to reveal an empty well of pure apathy. As a product of the dichotomous partisan politics platform, I can see the ignorance that coincides with identifying with a party; I can feel the tension that exists with introductions of Republican, Democrat, Socialist, anything-different-than-what-you-believe-in parties. I can see the next generation falsifying facts and statistics because the youth is uneducated yet unashamed. I can see the patriarchal society hardening its grips around a more socially aware female population. I can see the cult of domesticity deteriorating in seriousness and morphing around comedy and mockery. I can see the ghastly faces of men as women all around the world are climbing economic ladders and making names for themselves; I can see the uselessness of such awe because women were always capable of such ordeals.

And that's just the beginning. I consider myself involved in the social justice plight. Although I am rather liberal in my beliefs, I want to avoid political connotations with my beliefs because they are just that: my beliefs. I had long formed them before I became involved in politics. I had long determined that I would not mind if two guys or two girls decided to get married. I had long determined that a woman has authority and power over her own body. I had long determined that society has created an atmosphere where women must live in constant fear and paranoia. I had long determined that guns would never be exiled in America, but stricter gun control should never be out of the picture. And I am still determining many, many things. And that's okay because I am just a mere high school student. Maybe it's a crutch or an excuse or reasoning to hide behind, but I cannot possibly make a difference as a high school student. I have begun to recognize the corruption that bleeds into the nation -- education, government, religion, culture, social class, economy, everything, yet I can't do anything to steadily make a palpable difference because I don't have any authority or power. Because everything is "too" corrupted already, whatever the hell that means.

But because of my status as a peon of a human, I am not capable of making a difference on a global, an international level. I am not capable of instigating a revolution, as gloriously brilliant as it may be. I seem to only be capable of indulging in a constant state of frustration and irritation. Several epiphanies later, I cannot seem to fathom all my thoughts, all my musings, all my criticisms. But there is one thing that is clear to me: the youth of today is the future of tomorrow, yet we are not given power nor control over anything. As the youth, I am a part of a revolution in and of itself. I am a part of Generation Y, of the "Me" Generation, of the technology era; however, I am only given a plastic toy sword and told to swing as fiercely and boldly as possible. How does that impact anyone? I am part of the youth, and I want to be the glue that fixes society. I want to be the band aid that mends the wounds of the feminist party, the partisan platforms, the wealth gap, the educational gap. I want to be the vaccination that prevents any further outbreak of misery. But I am just a mere high school student, and I've been unknowingly thrown into the alcohol that keeps the fire burning. I am a part of the educational system I am so blatantly against. I am easily identified as one specific partisan party. I am so black and white on topics, and I am subtly brainwashed into believing so many ideologies. So how can I find the solution when I'm a part of the problem?

Rebel, reform, reconstruct? I do not know yet. I do not know many things because the unknown is frightening and terrifying, but I do know one thing: I am just a mere high school student, and while I may not be able to rally millions behind a common goal, I will write and write until my ink becomes the fire that so gallantly fights against the hands of oppression and corruption.