Secret Dreams

(picture)

Sometimes, I have these secret dreams. 

Small, quiet thoughts that float around my mind like shadows. I don't tell them to anyone, the secrecy makes them feel more special... 

I wish I was a ballerina. 

Those gorgeous girls, spinning like tops in shiny pink shoes, running and jumping, winning the affections of every soul in their audience, no matter how small. The graceful way they move, and with such passion, their bodies in perfect rhythm with the pretty music.

(picture)

I danced when I was two. A small little me, barely knowing who I was, trying to be the best I could be at something that fascinated me. I didn't know I loved it then. And that was the last time it ever came into my sight. 

I think over the process of my life, a teeny piece of my heart had gotten lost, stumbled down the wrong street, and is now having trouble finding it's way home. That piece is still in the ballet studio, looking at it's self in the mirror and it's shiny pink shoes. Wishing the rest of me was there to see them.

 

 

A Poem: The Passenger

The Passenger

I wish this car didn't have to take me there,
I wish that the compass on its dash didn't have to always point north,
The pavement, the streets,
They only point one way,
I wish the passing pavement would go faster underneath our feet,
I may be only a passenger, but I feel as if out destination isn't the driver's grim expectation,
Its my wild imagination's wildest dream,
Full of grass and fields, all glowing green,
The sky would be a blue kind of gray,
I may be a mere passenger but I know the way,
But the compass is set on eluding me,
It does not waver, nor quiver in its place,
And while it's easy to imagine that when the car stops, my feet will not on be stone but sand,
I've come to realize, with a certain painful ache, that in the end, it is only as it seems,
And I am just a passenger with a dream.

To me, being a passenger means that while you can experience the beauty of the drive, the comfort of the scenery, you will always only be going to the driver's destination, and not your own. My own personal way to express what I sometimes feel like my days, weeks, and months are like. It is quite rare when a person feels completely and absolutely understood, and I suppose that's what the driver represents: the people who seem to look over your head and not into your eyes. They don't even try to understand, they just drive. 


But I am a passenger that knows her way. And passengers can always learn to drive.


Today was the first day of summer, and I spent it exploring, smiling, and getting sunburned. How fitting. How lovely. 

 

Golf Man the Great

My high school sits rather reluctantly on the edge of a sprawling golf course, of which you must pass if you wish to reach the school. So every morning I watch the workers steady the flags at each hole, and watch the sun and fog waft softly through the trees. It’s peaceful in the morning, as if its relaxing from its hours of work during the day. 

But this morning, it wasn’t empty. A rather unsteady and plaid-shorted man was jogging excitedly from hole to hole, and while at a stop light, I watched the man as he shimmied and shifted in his position before swinging his shiny golf club and promptly hitting himself in the head on his back swing rather than the ball, which stood defiantly in it’s little peg. The man looked at it as if a magic trick had been preformed on him, and rubbed his head. He swiftly glanced at the street, saw he had an audience and quickly completed an adequate swing to redeem his skills. I smiled as I drove away, wondering what the Golf Man was doing at seven-thirty in the morning attempting to improve himself at golf. He certainly had a great attitude, expressed through his admirable new-looking hat with a pom-pom on the top. 

And while Golf Man might  tell people he’s a pro at golf, I’ll always know he’s just like everyone else, making mistakes. I see people sometimes that look so wonderful on the outside – you think of how their life must be, how beautiful they must feel all the time – but really we’re all just people. Some people are loud, some are smart, some sing well, some dance horribly, and others should not play golf. 

Well wishes, Golf Man. May you go back to hole number nine and try again tomorrow, for I will be cheering you on. 

Searching For ...

Spring is so very elusive in New Hampshire. Yesterday, conveniently on a day in which we could all hope that the meteorologists were playing a wicked joke on us all, we received snow. Enough snow for a snow day. In April. Though it has since melted quite quickly, as if it was only a test of our optimism. The weather is restless, it seems, and so is everyone else. We're just waiting for something, though we don't particularly know what. So I've been taking pictures, searching for what everyone seems to be anticipating. 

  I think spring brings the restlessness on by its self. Looking at the bare trees, the dry grass, the darkened sky - everywhere is potential for beauty, for golden sunlight, a warm breeze, and being able to go to the beach without wearing three pairs of socks. And waiting for summer is difficult sometimes. If it doesn't come soon, the collection of people who are taking notice of the change have an almost childish fear of it not coming at all. 

I went to the Robert Frost Farm for a project. It didn't feel like any type of work. It was just breath taking to watch the open fields as they seem to breath along with the swelling wind. To look at the house and know that one of the greatest minds in literature once walked on the same paths as you are now. I'm a little jealous, to be honest. Any writer would prosper in a place like that. 

Anyone will prosper when they're surrounded by beauty.

The After Life

No not death (perhaps that too though). I'm talking about after college. After high school, where I will be expected to get up out of my cozy chair, stop living off of Pop Tarts, delaying homework in order to watch Family Feud and make something of my myself. And more importantly, to make money. 

Being in a college preparatory high school, college is the unavoidable future that they tend to remind us and nudge us and poke us about more often then I think may be healthy. But it's always there. They want us to be scientists and doctors and to live well, then come back and enlighten the new batch of freshmen of how successful we are. Which is all well and good, if you're into that sort of thing. But I, on the other hand, will not be participating in his celebration of wealth and prosperity. 

Because I'm fairly certain that I will be broke. And poor. Not miserable, just poor. I want to be a writer. You know - write my own books for all of you lovely people to read and enjoy, and I shall make a humble sum and live off of that until I write the next thing that decides to make it's way into my head. That was a wonderful dream until my future decided to slap me in the face. 


It takes work to publish a book, and I'm aware of that, that's okay. But the thought that even if I did get one published, I'd have to do something on the side? Not so wonderful. I've always wanted to be a writer, and because of money, I can't solely be that. It's a little depressing, if you think about it. 


The whole point of having a job is to make money. Right? It doesn't really matter whether you like the work, or you're happy to wake up and do what you love, all that matters is that you're making a generous amount of cash to support whomever you need. But can't we bend the rules just a little? One has to be super talented and skilled to publish a book, I'm sure. So if I don't, will I be living in a cardboard box on the side of the road, instead of asking for change, asking for an agent? Oh dear ...


I thought being an English major would be fun. Until the unhappy reality stated above decided to settle its self into my plan. Now I'm left with not even an idea of what I'd rather do than write, and my guidance councilors asking me the age-old question of what I want to be when I grow up. 


Maybe I should just work in the Disney store.

Triple-Zero

I have to admit that it is not as big an accomplishment as I'd like it to be. But it's still enough to make me pause in my typing to stare at the lower left corner of my Word document and squeal like a small pig: I've written 10,000 words. In a month. Granted, for any other writer, this is merely as small as taking a trip to the grocery store, and this triple-zero number has just become part of life. 

I still continue to squeal. And alert my parents and my friends, and half of the strangers I see on the street. Sixteen pages of an actually started novel, in which I go in chronological order. This is the real monumental act of intelligence. I used to jump from scene to scene, attempting without much success to create an actual novel. 


But here I am in the middle of the night, typing an inner monologue when I stop and feel like I should be throwing confetti in celebration. Sure, I have more to go, more to say, and a lot to edit, but for right now, I'm afraid to add anymore - that 10,000 just looks so pretty. 


I hope when I'm older, or in the coming months, when I make it to 20,000 and 30,000 or even something like 60,000 that I never get tired of it. Taylor Swift said that one of her biggest fears was not being able to get excited by the little things, which I suppose we have in common. No matter how many words, they'll always be a story. 


But 10,000 still makes me smile.
 

Shoes

If you see me on the street, or the grocery store, or anywhere else where I would appear as a stranger, you definitely would not think me athletic. Honestly, any decently-sized boy at my school could probably snap a limb with ease if they really wanted to. I'm pretty content with being a wimp, with feeling like I'm going to die upon running for more than three seconds, and with having the nearest by-stander open my Vitamin Waters for me. Until I put these little things on:

My mother bought them for me a year or so ago for a gym class I had to take in middle school (in which I whined about 102% of the time). They sit in my line of shoes, staring at me. I put them on the other night, which brought a peculiar feeling. People run and climb and jump in shoes like this. People that wear shoes like these appear in Nike commercials and are always sweating. I wonder what I would be like if I were a Gatorade-chugging, Nike-loving, pony-tail-donning, speedy athlete. I've never really been on a sports team, even though just about every one of my friends is. And yet, what if I had? Would I have more friends or be healthier or something drastic? Or would I just have something to do with my weekends? 

I suppose you'd be more likely to see me in these. It's impossible to run in them, which is no problem for me. I guess the running shoes just show me how different people are. People can be fancy, or rude, or happy, or tall, or small, or odd, or loud. And they wear all different types of shoes. 


Maybe that's why I feel like the running shoes shouldn't belong to me. Because I hate Gatorade, pony-tails, sweat, and exercise. Perhaps I should give them to someone who could use them. Or keep them for when I feel like pretending to be someone else. 


I think my other shoes may have grown afraid of them.