With no absolute reality, with all of us experiencing the world in our own truths and perspectives, if we all see that we are quite distinct from one another – why is there such an overwhelming amount of anger at our differences as individuals? To disagree is one thing; to cause discord and have blood slain over it is another. We can only come so far in being in accordance with and influencing the people around us, but for this to be kept in mind, and moreover, for us to stand in unity despite distinctions, we must first have acceptance.

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73 Days of Summer


It’s the time of the year wherein we simultaneously become ingredients in God’s stew and enjoy doing so. It is also the time of the year in which we are gifted with a rare amount of freedom, and unless you’re part of the unlucky ones who have school and work during the months of summer, said days of freedom (I counted 73 until I am once again imprisoned in my education) are usually filled with adventure and leisure. And here, in all glory of documentation, are my own.

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I’ve got to say that I imagined things to be different by this point in time. And they are different – but now how I pictured it. I guess my eight-year-old self’s dream of being Britney Spears was too far off, or the brooding 12-year-old thought of being dead by this age too morbid, but there’s the implication there, that by this point I would have had all or nothing. Two impossible possibilities, really, because all our lives we’d be caught in between.

It was a naive mindset. And after fifteen years, I’ve come to say that what you give is what you get isn’t entirely true. There are no parameters taken to oversee your failures and successes, or to grant rewards and strip them away when it’s due. There is no endgame, no exact moment where we come to claim a happily-ever-after (and even if there is, the moment that you turn sixteen is hardly it). Struggle is eternal, and to expect its lack will breed more of suffering from it in the long run. Resolutions are made. We manage. We thrive. We never escape.

To my eight-year-old self, I can’t say that I have it all, either. There was much to lose and was lost, but as sacrifices go, they ended up making me feel more fulfilled than incomplete. Besides, there is still so much to work for. There is still a lot to achieve. I can’t say I’m Britney Spears either, while we’re at it. We had that one coming.

To my twelve-year-old self, I understand why you pictured me dead. The angst is driving you against the wall and the world feels like it’s conspiring against you, but I promise it gets better. You’re going to go through a lot more dilemmas and you’re going to laugh at some of them. Trust me. And goddamn, you’re going to be fabulous. I should know.

It’s odd how my youth feels more tangible when I am to turn another year older. It’s to come in mere seconds, and for the first time, I’m actually looking forward to it.