Life is a Highway (and Usually Under Construction)

I have heard many times that cliche "life is easy," but I truly believe that it's the hardest thing we do. What makes it so hard? It's the other people in it. My self-centered nature allows me to constantly and consistently worry about how any or all of the other humans on this massive planet we cohabit will somehow directly impact me. Mostly in a self-seeking way, such as: "I wonder if So-and-So will have what I need/want..."

Okay, so generally not literally that, but you get the drift.

Life is the hardest thing I do. It's the only thing I do, and I really have no conscious reference point to compare it to anything else. Life is everything. When I'm watching TV, surfing the web for useless information, or literally saving someone's life, it is the complete summation of all of these experiences that is my life. I am tired of hearing people say that life is so easy. I wish I knew to what they were comparing the entirety of their existence!

I sometimes, however, forget that the way I feel in a particular moment has about as much permanence as a birthday card. I keep them for a while, often remembering with fondness that particular person who shelled out four dollars to say they were glad I was born. The reality, however, is that a few months later, I can recall certain significant people giving me cards, but I have no idea what they said, other than Happy Birthday, I love you, etc. Emotions are like that. So are dreams. I can remember that I was seething with fierce resentments or so filled with joy at times, but I often forget the details of the situations. I know I was in a terrible mood yesterday, but honestly have no idea why.

Sometimes I find it hard to believe that everything happens for a reason. I'm clearly over-analytical about things, so it's very easy to question the seemingly insignificant things like why I chose orange instead of purple when I painted my toenails. The universe's tally-sheet of cause and effect probably has some Butterfly-effect whereby my purchase of one bottle of nail polish either contributes to the economic prosperity of Sally Hanson or somehow caused the OPI company to lose stock value. My grandiosity knows no bounds, but it was just an arbitrary example.

I have to remember daily that my feelings are no more permanent than my now-chipped nail color. Before the orange, there was blue, but I can't remember what was before that, and it really does not matter, just as yesterday I was hurting, and before that I was happy, and before that doesn't really matter either.

I have several friends who are experiencing similar circumstances, but are all coping in extremely different ways. One is using the "complete denial" approach, being of the "ignorance is bliss" philosophy. I supposed, when I heard her say that, that since it's her life, who's to say she's wrong. I believe it all goes back to the way I used to think about things, "everyone's experience of life is their own, neither right or wrong." Ani and John Locke both have this in common: "My body is my own property; it's the only thing I own, so what I do with it is my business." Abso-freaking-lutely.

One of the other friends in that same boat is taking more of an analytical approach. "I have taken all the steps I can take, it's out of my hands now." I can appreciate that, although I am not sure what I would do. That shoe doesn't fit me anymore. I wore it for a while, but I outgrew it.

What Room is Fifth-Grade English Class?

I was ecstatic for Spring Break, the international college student's Christmas. I use the past tense, because about 3 hours before it started I had received an abysmal grade on a paper that should have been at least a B. I'm by no means trying to suggest that the moldy piece of bread I handed in as an academic analysis was even a "C" paper, but the shock wasn't in getting the grade, it was the realization that, as it was more benignly stated, I'm "flexing a muscle that hasn't been used in quite some time." Like a piece of moldy bread, my paper was small, unappetizing, and yet familiar to me as a college student. I enjoy writing prose, poetry, and don't really mind research papers, but the analysis paper is, itself, the three-day old bargain bread: waiting for someone to pick it so it can turn sour.

I like analytical thinking, just not writing. I'm a science major, and thrive in a scientific, formula-derived world, but when it comes to English comp, I tend to not think in terms of sentence and paragraph algorithms. It is more art than science, and I feel that I am not creative whatsoever, especially when I try to interpret and organize my thoughts according to this format.

I suppose the conclusion here, if one needs to be drawn, is that I really need to stop attempting to reinvent the square (not quite as useful as the wheel).

At some consolation, I did receive a "pep-talk" regarding being infinately older than my "peers." I left a little disappointed, not with my effort, but my overt lack thereof. I can't speak for anyone else, but when I turn in a horrible paper, I usually know why. Statistically speaking one hundred percent of the time, it is due to the fact that I've procrastinated far too long to actually write the paper in the first place. I have also felt the hard slap of its aftermath.

So we make these mistakes; we feel the pains of the growth process. We wipe our tears, put our pride back in our pockets and walk away smartly. The growing isn't in the realizing, it's in the application of it. It's the universal lesson central to all of my problems: "I don't do what I'm supposed to, when I'm supposed to, and how I'm supposed to." The ego swells up, suppressing the id, wiping out productivity and obedience and humility as its casualties.

See, I'm a mediocre artist with a palate of words; I just loath being given laws governing how I must produce the art.

Sleepily,
Shayna