a reflection: on the coming-of-age

I am well aware that I'm growing up in a time where the coming-of-age story is highly romanticized. There are children constantly indulging in their sadness, waiting for a time to right their wrongs and have their lives magically come together, like loose threads finally being tugged at.

It's not that easy.

I grew up guilty of the same feeling. In all honesty, I'm probably still guilty of it now. It's to the point where my sadness has become such a part of my daily life that I don't realize how intentional I'm making it. I realize that's a problem. Now onto fixing it?

The first semester of college has been interesting and highly convoluted. I feel like a jumbled scrunch of yarn, clawed and pulled apart by the claws of some neighboring feline. I guess everyone feels the same way. It's the rite-of-passage into adulthood, trying to transition into college and trying to find new legs to walk into a new life. It all feels incredibly cliche, the homesickness, the not letting go of the past, the struggling to find new friends and make new memories with people. It's all something that I feel like I would see in a really bad indie flick, but it seems to be happening all around me. Being back home for Thanksgiving break has an incredibly weird aura around it. When I first came back for Fall Break, I spent a good portion of the short-lived visit in a whirlpool of nostalgia. I sat in my room and felt like a stranger checked into a hotel room. My little carry-on suitcase was sitting on the overwhelmingly empty floor, and all I had on my bed was a lumpy pillow and a throw blanket.

Now that it's been a little longer, I sit in my room and still feel wistful about the past. I woke up this morning and looked around, and with the old soul I have, reflected. I could see my past self groveling over calculus homework and stress-crying about my grades on my giant mahogany desk. I saw my prepubescent self sitting in front of my mirror worried about my appearance way more than necessary. I saw myself sitting with my window open and thinking about the first boy I ever loved. There are many ghosts of former selves lurking around in my room, and it's a startling realization in that I enjoy their company. They're a constant reminder that I'm always growing, that I'm always aiming for something more.

I'm 18. I can't stop thinking about the future. For all my life, college was the next big step. I spent middle school, barely, and high school, very much so, working to make sure I got into a good college and working to make sure I would find myself in a place that I enjoyed. I finally made it, and I am proud of myself. But now, what's next? My career. My family.

Going into college, a lot of people told me that I would change my major. I didn't believe them. I was so firmly rooted into the concept of being an English major that I never could've imagined myself even doubting that path in life. Even though it's only been one semester of college, I'm starting to see the clarity in the structure of English classes, and I'm not sure if I enjoy them exactly. And college is all about self-discovery and doing things for yourself, right? After taking two linguistics courses, the idea is more and more alluring, and I'm probably going to pursue a linguistics double major with political science. Nothing is set is stone, but I finally feel like, after a very long and strenuous journey, I have the slightest sense of direction in life. However, this brings up the problematic question, "What can I do with a linguistics major?" To many people in my life, law school is the glaringly obvious answer. I can write, I can talk, and I argue. But what do I really know about law school? I have exposure from a very dramatized depiction on television and the warped generalizations that float through society. How do I figure out what it's like if I can't get a trial run? So maybe the job that I want and that I will thrive in hasn't been officially made yet. Maybe I'll find myself doing something completely different than I anticipated. Either way, I still have a lot of questions left, and it's definitely not as easy as before when my goal was college. College as a goal was easy, very strategic and very calculative: do well in classes, be well-rounded, dip your toes into your passions, and be a good person. Setting your sights on a future career path is much harder. There are so many other variables you need to take into consideration.

So my career seems like a dead end, and that means that I focus and channel all my energy into my future family. I was never the girl that dreamed of her wedding as a kid. I never even thought about where I wanted to get married or where I wanted to go on a honeymoon or any of the little intricacies about my future romances. To be quite frank, I thought it was naive and pointless. What good is a little girl's dreams going to do on the highly fluid future? Well, I'm not a little girl anymore, and all the hopeless romanticism I suppressed has come bursting out like fireworks. I don't want to sound silly, but I absolutely cannot wait to get married. I can't wait to know that I will have someone to come home to and someone that will be by my side no matter what. I can't wait to know that, even after the worst of days, I can come home and see the person who chooses to stay with me. I can't wait to have that stability and that kind of constant. I can't wait to live with the person I love and do silly things and goof off. Cliche, yes, but I know I'll be happy. I can't wait to go on vacations with my future husband and ironically say, "Honey, I'm home!" for the first couple of weeks (or months?) after we buy a house together. I think about it a lot, to be quite honest, but I think that's okay. I think it's okay to look forward to a great future when my present is so unstable and shaky. I think that's normal, and I'm not going to give myself any judgment for that.

I feel like I've achieved some kind of spiritual coming-of-age, where I've figured out the little secrets behind feelings. I always seem to know why I feel some way, and I always can find a source of my emotions. Not always, but enough times to where I feel rooted enough in my maturity. I tell myself that I'm different from other people, that the thoughts I have and the perspective I have on life is more, more meaningful and more insightful. I could be wrong, but I could very much be right. Either way, that is how I feel, and I know that I am valid in that. I feel wiser, and that's, ironically, probably a very dumb thing to think as a new 18-year-old, but I can't help to feel like I've finished my arduous adolescent journey, that I've overcome some horrible emotional adversity and am now in the process of achieving adulthood-nirvana. But my coming-of-age has not nearly ended. It's only begun. It's like I finished my practice run, and now everything is about to really count. And that's horribly intimidating, but also a bit exhilarating.

That's all, for now.

existential fulfillment

I believe in the importance of art. I believe that it is fundamental for growth, that it is an integral part of living a life filled with enrichment and beauty. Art is versatile, and art is expansive.

I personally appreciate the culture of an art museum. I can wander around the halls, staring at famous paintings and sculptures. I can stand in front of the famous pieces of Dali, Miro, Monet, and wonder what brilliance went through their minds for them to create something so beautiful. I can watch performance art pieces and contemplate, and I can try and find meaning in even the most obscure contemporary artwork. However, I know that only certain people genuinely enjoy the atmosphere of such an environment. There is a natural aesthetic, but no movement of the soul. For some, art creeps into the deepest wounds of the heart; it sulks in the nooks and crannies of your fingertips and sits quietly off the edge of your collarbones. For many others, framed landscapes and boxed ceramics hold no significance; there is no transcendence of mind, no tidal wave of emotion.

But art is everywhere. Art exists in every medium, in every century, in every home. There is art in the soundtrack to your favorite movie. The dramatic buildup of an action scene balances perfectly with the poignant instrumentals of heartbreak and woe. There is art in between the spilled ink of your favorite author, where you see how the sorrows and joys of their own lives blend and blur with the characters of a made-up world. There is art in the laughter of your loved ones, art in the complexity of the brain, art in space. To me, the best art is organic. There is a wondrous symphony in every blossoming flower and a harmonious solo performance in every leaf. The color of the plants wilt and transform the same way ballerinas dance across a stage; the rain hits the pavement the same way the rhythm of drums sync with your heartbeat. The sunshine shyly peaking through the tree branches on a sunny Sunday morning feels like the warmth of applause after a recital; the feeling of running your fingers through a creek feels like the initial stroke of paint on canvas. For centuries long, the world has been naturally churning out masterpieces worthy of praise and admiration, and every day, I become more and more convinced that magic exists.

Many people disregard art; the laser-focused generation of preplanned success has gradually declared art irrelevant and non-vital. I respectfully disagree. The education system values a STEM-oriented curriculum; students have all adopted the universal ideology that any career in the hard sciences and mathematics department lead to ensured job opportunities and a life of financial security. On the opposite side of an overly dichotomous spectrum, humanities and art are seen as pathways to unemployment and cardboard boxes. Sad to say, schools are beginning to cut funding on the Fine Arts department and beginning to funnel the money into stronger academic programs and athletics. Art is shrinking, evaporating into the sky, wisped away by the breezes of standardized tests and misconceptions. But, for one, the ill-advised attempt to remove 'art' from the focus of students will not work because art is a survivor; it will adapt to its surroundings as a way to thrive. It is sneaky, cunning, and the most clever person in the room. It will become a master of disguise, but slowly fall in love with its new identity. Art is not exclusive to history, to music, to pencil sketches and still life, for it embarks into the overwhelmingly unknown world of science. You don't have to be a romantic to find beauty in art. There is no prerequisite to be utterly in love with the universe; one does not have to look at the world through rose-colored glasses, for there is art in science and math, because the formulas and equations used to prove a hypothesis and validate a theory flow through the mind like Shakespeare; the sketches and schematics piled up are drafts of the final product. The ability to venture into the unknown and create something out of nothing remains awe-inspiring. But more importantly, such an ability leads one to become an artist. In my personal opinion, being a scientist, a mathematician, an engineer of any sort, doubles as artistry; whether you are building the newest innovative gadget or researching the latest scientific discovery, there is art in your actions. All you have to do is follow your passions. Every stroke of knowledge, every new thought, every philosophical musing, every doubt becomes a form of art, and to truly get rid of that within a generation is impossible. Secondly, art is a nutrient; it is necessary for growth and for quality of life. Fostering an appreciation for art, be it the limitless world of theoretical physics or the melancholic poeticism of Sylvia Plath, paves a lane of existential fulfillment.

Quite often, I have heard the phrase, "There are two types of people in this world." There are a multitude of ways to categorize, generalize, and identify the general masses; through one lens, you see two types of people: those that appreciate art, in whatever medium, and those that don't. I believe there is a significant difference in happiness. Quantifying happiness, success, or whatever broadly vague term of self-actualization, is difficult. There are various definitions for each phenomenon, but in the grand scheme of things, it is all individual, all unique. For each person, there is a different perspective and point of view. For some, money is the most important aspect of happiness; for others, love is almighty. Debates have sparked over just which is right, but despite whichever factor you hold wholly or majorly responsible for happiness, art should be a part of the picture. While I am young, and while I have been limited to my hometown suburbia, I have met enough people to see a difference. The absolute brilliant people that see art in the ordinary, that see art in the world and their passions, those people have color in their eyes. Their veins are constantly pumping with adrenaline, geared towards expanding their horizons and learning everything about anything. Their grip is a little tighter when you hold their hand; their hugs are a little longer when you reach in for a friendly embrace. Their tears are heavy with wonder, and their smiles are like little fireflies constantly twinkling. Their minds expand, and they learn how to question things. Those people who neglect the importance of art fall a little flat, as if they've got little leaks everywhere. They are the smudged lead marks on the margin of the paper, the broken umbrella left on the side of the road. Their greetings and their farewells are bland, and their actions are rote and mechanical; there is no spontaneity, no impulsiveness, no surprises.  However, art grows at an exponential rate. It radiates through the nets of boredom and  monotony. It embodies the vigor of a saltwater wave and the gentle shine of the morning sunrise. Art is always eager to enter into a home, and once it does, it becomes a permanent member of the household.

Art is about perspective. It's about interpretation and cultivates a life of open-mindedness. It rejects the notion of black-and-white and splatters a kaleidoscope of possibilities into your life. Art is about individuality. It's about delving into the deepest parts of yourself and floating amidst the chaos. It rejects the notion of conformity and values self-love. Art is about growth. It's about kindred spirits and intimate connections built on a foundation of curiosities and intellectual stimulation. It rejects the suppression of expression.

You don't have to praise the creation of art museums, and you don't have to regularly attend the local symphony, but you should intermix art into your life. Alter your mind if you do not see art all around you; take the ordinary parts of your day and dip them into the puddles of beauty. Weave the brilliance of art into your daily norms, and take some time to understand what you are doing. I promise there will be change. And while change is scary and daunting, it is just as necessary. Take some time and acknowledge your surroundings; the birds that wake you up in the morning are living, breathing things, and that is beautiful. They have their own lives, their own families, their own struggles. The stars that you ignore every night burn far away, raging with such powerful passion, born from the collapse of a gaseous nebula. They're beautiful, and all because they exist. The wind that tangles your hair and kisses your neck is the ever-changing tempo for the natural world; they sway the tree branches in front of your house from ballroom dancing to waltzes to tangos.

 Find art in everything. Find new art in old art. The world is in a perpetual state of change, a perpetual state of growth. You are a part of this world, which very well makes you art. Appreciate art, and appreciate yourself.

the bedtime story of galileo galilei

she was a wide-eyed wanderer
mapping out the constellations
in her classmates' freckles;
she found a galaxy in their faces
twirling with impression of the milky way
and sparkling with the illuminating glow
of far away planets

she saw exploration and discovery in their smiles
and imagined the magic of the moon landing
in the dimples dwindling down their cheeks
she felt the cheers of the world
roaring in her ears as mankind stepped down
and trekked around their grins,
voyaged into their hearts

but in her own reflection
she found vast emptiness and silence
and she soon began to believe
that she was nothing
but a mere collection of dust and debris
swirling effortlessly to the rhythm of her
heartbeat

every mirror and every photograph
showed barren cracks and moon rocks
sitting quietly across her forehead
and down the bridge of her nose;
nothing but the quiet exhales of her breath
puffed through her rough exterior

she felt the heavy weight of the asteroid belt
anchoring her down, ricocheting through her veins
but every time she lay herself down to sleep
her eyes squeezed together with the utmost delicacy
waiting patiently to enter a world of twinkling stardust
and lightning fast comets

her soul floated in the open sky for years
calculating the amount of time it would take
to slide down the rings of Saturn,
formulating a way to ski through the eye of Jupiter,
scheming and plotting how to avenge the tragedy
of Pluto

her thoughts jumped from crater to crater
and she danced in meteor showers for millenniums;
she held her breath as she crossed the stratosphere
and jumped from Venus to Mars
bright-eyed and red-faced
she realized that a universe exists within her;
a storm within the sky

the love story of ferdinand magellan

she was the ocean
with waves pounding upon the shore
swallowing grains of sand with every inhale
and spitting out tangled webs of seaweed
exhaling nothing but controlled chaos

he was not the swimmer
visiting for spring break with friends
wading in tidal pools of ecstasy,
but the voyager ready to map out
visions of their future

he felt her pounding against his skin
curving against his body
with the utmost delicacy
leaving him cloaked in a silky gossamer
dipped in droplets of desire

and when he made her laugh
ripples of sanguine sunshine
twinkled throughout the horizon
and when he made her cry
treacherous storm clouds melted
into lightning bolts of vigorous rage

but he did not escape
when she destroyed sandcastles
of creativity and innocence,
but ran his fingers through her hair
staining his fingertips with adoration

he spent nights leeched onto the buoy
subtly bouncing into her subconscious
until one day he poked too far
and she spit him up onto the shore
dehydrated and depleted

she felt broken and busted
jagged and jaded
because countries of pandemonium
planted their roots around her body
and continents of conflict grew in her mind

lost and dazed
her rage ignited whirlpools of fury
and tsunamis of confusion
because she no longer knew who she was
with parts of her here
and parts of her there

so he set out to touch every coastline
letting her know that her vibrancy
exists in every corner of the world
and he sailed to each port
navigating her pulsating veins
with the galaxies of stars
that reflected in her eyes

he discovered sorrowful aftermaths
of deserted shipwrecks and accidents
hidden deep in her heart
but also found glittering trinkets
locked in chests hidden under debris

he traced the spiraling coral
that hardened around her bones
but felt the soft sponges that
absorbed the agony of everyone
who baptized their souls
and cleansed themselves of sin

she somberly watched
bits of herself evaporate each day
climbing ethereal vines into the sky
but he always filled
the vast void in her languid core
with reminders of life

she was the natural palette of colors
that he used to paint pictures of
hope and rebirth

and

together 

they were art

4/12/2015
8:16 pm

birthed from the cosmos

There are oftentimes I finish a book where I find myself in a literary limbo.
The characters I created such strong connections with dissipate into the atmosphere, yet the emotions I felt so greatly for them pulse throughout my veins.

The words have burned into my retinas, and the rawness of the story stained my fingertips as I traced the ink on the pages.

Her words sit in my throat and burn every time I swallow. I can feel my thoughts rumbling in my stomach as I sit here twisted up in knots. I cannot focus, and I cannot move. I feel permanently planted in this position, sitting and wondering, questioning and appreciating. I am angry, and I am sad. Her poignant words feel like blades digging into my body, carving me to a different person.

I am crying, and I am smiling. I feel caged and fortified, like someone is holding cement walls around my thoughts and prohibiting my expression from exploding in a frenzy of fireworks. And part of me wants to stay hidden, not yet ready to embark upon the noise of reality. Part of me wants to sit somberly against the hard, cold floor and wallow in my own thoughts, letting them entangle me in my inquisitions and drown me in my admiration. Yet somehow, I have never felt more liberated than I do at this moment. The moment that has lasted an eternity, the moment that stands still in time and lingers passively; the same moment that exists when you watch a raindrop glide down the car window or when you isolate your vision on one snowflake falling gently from the sky. I can feel the earth breathing through my skin, whispering for me to run, to pounce, to climb.

I want to fly, to ride the air like Milkman, and scream to the stars. I want to jump, to leap, and soar. We all fear for oblivion, for the disappearance of our lives, for the crumbling of our names. We all feel the drastic need to engrave our legacy into the stones left over by our ancestors, but Song of Solomon has changed my life.

I want to grow, like the stars in the sky, and I want explode, to collapse, in a nebulous web of chaos and utter beauty. I want my ashes sprinkled across the universe, in ever corner of the world. I want my hopes and aspirations to be reflected in every raindrop that falls from the clouds that hug mountains. I want my misery and agony to sting people in the eye like the sand of the desert. I want my insecurities and flaws to explore the depths of the planet like the dandelion seeds.

I no longer need to feel like I'm a part of nature because I am reminded of my humble beginnings. I was birthed from the cosmos, and I will carry that with my as the wind sweeps my from below.

It's a two-way street, not a fork in the road.

Social networking is powerful. Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook -- they're all platforms for people to voice their opinions with vigor. Albeit time-consuming, these websites are definitely precious for all groups of people. Within the past few months, Twitter has exploded in social issues. First, #YesAllWomen was trending in response to the school shooting in California. The gist of the situation revolved around a male student being rejected by a girl, leading him to promptly cause a school shooting (one of the 75+ school shootings that have happened since Sandy Hook, I might add). The tragedy sparked many feminists to harp over the inequality issue, as many people starting blaming the girl. "She should've given him a chance" and "Girls always friendzone the guys" became incredibly common sentences that stained the Internet. In response, feminists amplified the absurdity of that logic, explaining that women are not obligated to go out or date anyone they don't want to. Fighting the patriarchal ideologies that have become permanently ingrained into society, feminists made a strong case. However, men continued to plea their own case with their #NotAllMen hashtag, causing a major rift in women's plight for equality.

Before I continue, I would like to clarify something: the definition of feminism is the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities. Feminism is not about degrading or vilifying men whatsoever, but people fail to realize that the whole reason there is a feminist movement is because women have been plagued with double standards, unjust and unfair economical statuses, and so much more as opposed to men. The feminist movement is NOT a way for women to victimize themselves. We are not trying to wiggle our way into some privilege; no, we're trying to fight for equality. Feminists aren't trying to bash on men, but we are the product of a patriarchal society; we've been built around a superiority for men. When men are assertive, they are seen as effective and efficient bosses. Women are seen as bitches and bossy. The phrase "to run like a girl" and to "throw like a girl" exist, downgrading girls' ability as equal counterparts. Humanity has grown around a notion that all women must settle down to a life of domesticity; too often, women are told to marry into money, inferring that they're incapable of being successful in life on their own. There are far too many statistics revealing the huge imbalance of women in politics, as bosses, as CEOs. Women are hypersexualized in ads. What does cleavage have to do with hamburgers? I understand that men are sexualized as well -- male models always fall under 8-pack abs, muscular, and a fine jaw line. However, just because men share a problem with women doesn't mean that society should justify it. Feminists rightfully support the removal of sexualization (of both men and women -- a fine example of equality) from advertising -- from society.

Now, recently, there has been a new hashtag trending on Twitter: #WomenAgainstFeminism. When I first heard of this hashtag, I was skeptical, but open-minded to hearing the arguments of others. I have accepted the fact that not everyone will agree with me. I never want to berate anyone for their own beliefs, but I have my limits. On feminism, there's a huge division between liberals and conservatives, understandably. I understand that, and I can even accept it without anger, but when uneducated citizens attack me, I can get extremely angry. First thing I noticed: there were a plethora of men posting with the hashtag #WomenAgainstFeminism. Do I need to explain the issue any further? Secondly, many people seem to lose the definition of feminism.

Now, everyone needs to understand that the Feminist Movement is composed of all sorts of people. There are some people very dedicated; others are bystanders but support the cause. There are Republicans who support feminism, as well as many Democrats. All people of all races are open to the idea of feminism, and there are plenty that have even spent their life spreading the importance of it. But, with any cause (i.e. Civil Rights, Gay Rights, Abortion, Gun Control, Taxes), there are extremists. A commonly heard term for the extreme feminists are "Feminazis", emphasizing their adamant stance on feminists. I, personally, do not identify as a Feminazi, but I am very involved in the movement itself. As with any issue, there will be defensive people who threaten those who oppose their ideas. There are numerous cases where feminists have told non-supporters to kill themselves or to go and die, to which countless conservatives are pinpointing the supposed cruelty of feminists. That's not fair. You cannot generalize a whole group of people. That's the equivalent of classifying all Republicans as slavery-endorsing racists. All groups are diverse; it would be impossible to call all single members by something some one person said.

I've scrolled through Twitter for quite some while tonight. The most common arguments against feminism revolve around three things:
1) "Because men are absolutely awesome, and women should appreciate them more" - GOPMommy
2) "I am not a victim. There is no war against [women]. I have & will continue to succeed in life, because I work for it, not used my gender as a "get out of jail free" card. & I love to be sexy for my man & cook for him ... in the kitchen!" - kravmagajessica
3) "I don't need feminism because 'feminism' is a predominately white middle-class movement created by and for white women...when these women wanted to work in the early 1930s - their argument was 'black women will take care of our children & make dinner' - When they wanted birth control, they advertised it as a ploy to stop 'black women from breeding'. Today, feminism is shaming women who love their men and want to have children. I am all for equal rights. *That makes me human.* Where is the poor-ist movement? Where is the black/men/women/people-ist movement?" - kravmagajessica

Here are my responses:
1) Please refer back to the definition of feminism. The essence of feminism is equality, which means that we thrive for a world in which all humans look at each other and think we're all equal. Many anti-feminists are for a "humanist" society, pleading for a day we can all live as humans without labels. That is feminism. That is literally what feminism is entitling. Men are awesome! Women are awesome as well! Men should appreciate women, just as women should appreciate men. It's a two way street, but with all the double standards and gender roles that have hit both genders, it's hard to find equality. So the feminist movement was formed to try and fix some of the gaps. Yes, there are feminists belittling others who don't agree with their views -- attacking women who want a life of domesticity and condemning those who want to cook and stay in the kitchen -- but you cannot label the whole movement as women who believe they're better than men. Yes, there are women who laugh at others who prefer to look nice for their men and want to shave to look nice, but at the same time, there are plenty of conservatives who believe that anyone who doesn't believe in Christ belongs in Hell. You cannot zoom in on one aspect of the movement and intensify what happened; feminism is much bigger than just one point. We're fighting both misogyny and misandry. It's a two-way street, not a fork in the road.

2) Without feminism, women wouldn't be able to vote, go to school, work, drive a car, or have any rights. We are not vicitimizing ourselves and assuming we'll gain whatever we want due to our gender; it's the opposite. Maya Angelou was a prominent feminists, and she worked so hard in her life, as a writer, dancer, actress, singer, speaker -- anything she put her mind to. Feminists have a work ethic. We work diligently so we are able to progress in society. If you want a life without feminism, fine, but I promise you, without feminism, you wouldn't be able to go on Twitter and voice your opinion. Feminists have worked hard to promote a place of equality. Feminists are literally fighting for every woman (even those against feminism, ironically).

3) Feminism, again, is for equality. Feminism includes everyone of all races, genders, social class, religious beliefs, ethnicities, nationalities, etc. It is a universally encompassing movement. It's not made for white women. In fact, I've found that most anti-feminists are made up of men and white-women (mostly white conservatives). Birth control was not made for black women to stop breeding (and keep in mind that most liberals support feminism and supported civil rights as well, so that argument doesn't seem to stand very well). Birth control is still necessary as a contraceptive to avoid unwanted pregnancies, and it is also used to treat many illnesses. You want a humanist movement? There is one, my uneducated friend. It's called the feminist movement. I know there are flaws. I, myself, am against many of the arguments of many feminists, but when it comes down to the principle of the matter, I am for equality, so I am for feminism.

Many people say there's no war against women, but you need to open your scope. The United States of America is not the only country there is a problem. Look all around the world. Sex slaves exist. Rape exists. Acid attacks exist. There is, indeed, a war on women.

Approximately half of the population in the whole world are women. You need to remember that just because you, as an anti-feminist woman, do not feel oppressed, does not mean that others don't.

Tripping down the rabbit hole and landing in North Carolina.

There's not much to do in suburbia in the summer, especially in the night. Although it's the eve of the nation's blessed Independence Day, and many people are out festively watching celebratory fireworks, I had a different idea in mind -- so a friend and I got into a car and drove around. We found a jogging trail and followed it until we reached the edge of a river. Tranquility at its finest, but the overbearing darkness didn't make for such a calm experience. My eyesight was gone, so the rest of my senses were tripled in power, and adrenaline was pumping throughout my body with vigor. Ultimately though, it was a nice half hour watching the moon's reflection dissipate in the ripples of the river. The chorus of crickets outside nicely complemented the flickering of the fireflies. It finally started feeling like summer tonight. After a while, we hopped back into the car and drove around a bit more. We blasted music and sang at the top of our lungs, and then decided to go home. However, as we reached the driveway of my house, we realized we weren't quite ready to retire for the night. It was 11:00 PM -- where to go? We took a quick drive around my neighborhood to brainstorm, and then we found ourselves happily at the swimming pool in my neighborhood. Was this allowed? Technically, no; the pool officially closes at 9 PM, but it's not like we were swimming or anything. We were quiet and serene, so I punched in the code to enter, flipped off my sandals and dipped my toes in the warm water.

Over the years I've lived in my current neighborhood, I've learned a trick or too. One thing I love about my swimming pool are the lights; once the sun sets and the darkness lurks in the sky, I can easily flip a switch and turn the pool a magnificent aquamarine color. The lights under the water, on the sides, lit up with an incredible flame, and I could feel the goosebumps climb up the crevices of my spine.

It was one of those moments you hear about in over-cliched teen romance movies. But it was real. It was one of those moments that you want to envelope into your pocket and save for a time of angst and melancholy sorrow. The wondrous rumble of the chlorine water paired perfectly with the frog croaks and cricket chirps. Even better, the sky was filled with constellations and galactic stars. I could see the patches of silver clouds peeking, seeping, through the blanket of stars, and I felt so real. Everything felt so real. For a while now, I've felt a bit lost -- I tripped down the rabbit hole. Only unlike Alice, I was alone and desperate for a way out. Lately, I've started to feel like, particle by particle, I've started to disappear into the atmosphere; I could feel the fibers of my soul starting to separate and dissipate into the universe, but tonight, everything changed. I felt myself solidify into my being, into my core, into my essence. I felt the memories rush inside me like the blood that keeps me alive. I felt nostalgia, euphoria, and a certain kind of sadness. But nothing quite mattered at that moment because I have never felt that alive.

Maybe there were just enough stars in the sky tonight. Maybe the color of the pool was just the right shade of blue. Maybe the crickets chirped at just the right frequency. Either way, the events pieced together to form a night of adolescent excellence. So I traced the surface of the water with my fingertips and shared my fingerprints with the bubbles waltzing throughout the water. I made more than a memory; I made a moment. It was surreal, and part of me doesn't want to go to sleep tonight in fear that I will wake up tomorrow thinking such a magical moment could only be logically categorized as a dream.

Being it the summer before senior year, there are plenty of events in store. There are college essay planning excel spreadsheets. There is summer homework. I have internships, online classes, prepping for big tests, and so forth. Recently, I've taken a break. I sat down with my family at dinner and discussed some events going on -- Tim Howard being the hallmark of America, the stomach-twisting story of the child left in the summer heated car, the (ridiculous) new power given to employees over contraception choices, and of course, Hurricane Arthur. The breeze has been really nice today, but my prayers go out to those in North Carolina that are in a state of emergency. They were given a week of calm weather only to be greeted by a torrential downpour.

I am North Carolina.
Senior year is Hurricane Arthur.
Tonight was my calm before the storm.