Thursday, February 13, 2014
This was going to be a post titled "Things I'm Currently In Love With" but it gave way to an emotion that I'm having a harder time with as of now.
Fear > Love
Because I'm loving the sea, and the blue summer skies, and my new Zenit camera, and all the great books I'm reading.
But I'm afraid that the weather is determined to make my seas and skies grey, and that all of the pictures in my new/old Zenit camera will turn out too white, and that I'll never write a book as great as the ones I'm reading.
I'm afraid of all this, and of more.
I'm afraid of death. Not of death for me, but of death for my loved ones, and how painful it can be for them and for those who love them in turn. I don't want anybody to suffer. I want everybody to smile.
I'm afraid of the death of blogging. It's imminent. It's been imminent ever since I started my first blog back in 2008. It's just the platform that I've always loved the most, so it's hard for me to say the hardest two words. Ka boom. Grande finale. Good bye.
I'm afraid of my lack of talent. This is my last year in High School, and I need to choose. I'm smart enough to choose the safe path -medicine- and yet I wonder how happy I would be with it. Would I be happy at all? Does it matter whether I would be happy or not, if I can be saving people's lives?
Ka boom. Grande finale. Good bye.
The end is near for this blog, and I need to start thinking of what on Earth I'll do now. Tumblr? Twitter? Maybe I could keep this old guy up for the sake of my own fun? But is it any fun anymore, with the pressure of I'm never doing things well enough?
I always thought when my favorite bloggers said farewell "do they know how stupid they're being? How great they are, how much we love them? They could just keep at it in a more mellow fashion, and we will keep on loving them still."
It's so easy to think
and so hard to act.
going on 19
and not angsty anymore.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
|My parents and I a few years ago.|
When G-d assigned roles to newborns one 1995, he decided to bless me. A blessing that consisted of my entering the world through the vag of a strong, saintly woman and with half the genetic data of a strong, intelligent man.
I was blessed with my parents.
However; I do not feel this way all the time. It might be the usual fluorescent adolescent blues, but I tend to feel special in my particular shade of blue.
For example: My parents are both MDs, internationally recognized as outstanding in their fields. (I'm currently obsessed with Grey's Anatomy so this sounds fairly more exciting than it usually does to me.)
And yet I think I want to major in Literature, perhaps minoring in Anthropology. In fact, I'm pretty sure -even if Grey's Anatomy has me lightly second-thinking it all.
I'm having a hard time pinpointing the problem, but here it goes, straight out of the fingers currently roving a patient keyboard:
My parents are very different from what I am. Maybe, in 20 or 30 year's time, I will discover that this is not as true as I thought it to be. However, right now, it feels like while they are both genius, outstanding doctors, I'm a weird child who likes to fingerpaint on the walls of her bedroom. They are decided right-wing and I'm an avowed feminist who likes to read Eric Hobsbawm. I don't believe in modesty or at shying away from showcasing your body, and I generally dress in at least four different colours at the same time.
And I want to study Literature. You know, that's the major that gets tons of bullying on Tumblr and Twitter.
It's hard for me, because at times I feel that my parents slow down my race. For example, they don't know that I write a blog. Therefore, in the VERY HYPOTHETICAL case that I had the talent of Tavi Gevinson, would I be able to do all that she has done? Without their support?
Thankfully, it's been over a year since I gave up on trying to get their approval. Like most good first-borns, I seriously didn't want them to think ill of me. Now I'm more aware that a parent's love doesn't work like that, however, the dregs of this type of thought process remain.
I'm 18. I've mentioned on this blog how I feel the pressure of time against me.
Because I want to write! And live off my writing! Write something great! Yet SE Hinton wrote The Outsiders at 16, Pablo Neruda wrote his most famous poem when he was my age, Tavi was famous by the age of 14, and just look at that Lorde! Am I running out of time?
So should I be resentful of my parents for dragging me down? Because I do not dare to be the full-fledged bohème and artist that I could be for fear of hurting their more conservative spirits?
Answer: No. Because I was blessed with them.
One step at a time, and I'm sure I'll get wherever I want to. I trust that if I work hard and am essentially a good person, I will get where I want to. About the rest; my parents will have to understand me, and I will have to understand them.
PS. For another great article on a similar topic from one more knowing than I am, please check out: