Strange and Beautiful

Everyday I receive these thin, little scrolls.

They declare all these wonderful verses of truth and profess confessions of a beauty I never knew anyone could posses.

I do not find myself worthy of what all those words say.

But perhaps there is a inexplicable fascination in that nihilism that consumes me when I unscroll the piece of paper and begin to read.

I don't really remember now what it was I wanted to say in this blog, or even praise.

I was sitting in front of this screen and I began typing exactly what was on my mind.

I read today's magestic scrawl when I was walking and I stopped concentrating on my steps, or worrying about stepping on the lines in the concrete, because all that existed was this piece of paper, my hands, my green nail-polish, and those words.

And I was happy.

Period.

Human, All Too Human

I guess like most people my age, I've been contemplating several things over the last ten minutes that are making me feel so small and insignificant. I'm sure I have the ability to muster up some great explanation as to why I'm feeling this, but the beauty in it is, quite simply, that such an emotion means everything in itself.
You see, I am small. Very small. In fact, I'm probably smaller than most at this point in my life. And I'm willing to accept that because it provokes all those little unwinding instants within me that lead me to grow, even if just in my eyes, and my mind.
I've accepted the actuality that other people cannot and most often will not see the beauty of my existence and its ripple effect, as a reality I cannot alter fully, as opposed to viewing it as an injustice to my character.
The other night, I discovered something, a side that had before gone by unnoticed. In an attempt to better a perspective, I ended up feeling cruel, vainglorious, and completely ridiculous. Not every customer walks inside to buy the biggest item. In other words, not every person has the ambition to go be this "big thing" that people recognize and even sometimes admire. Not every person wants to go through all the obstacles (those which are optional) and come out of them braver or wiser, qualities that consume. Not everyone wants to dive into all those "big dreams" and uncertain theories.
And it's not a bad thing. At all. I am who I am, and they are who they are and you are who you are. And there is not much more to it.
So why do I always want there to be something more? Something unexplored and extraordinary? It's a tiring journey, searching for such "maybe"s and "I hope"s that end up being mostly disappointing, but yet never keep me from cancel, or even stalling, my next undertaking. I mean, damn it, I'm so tired. I'm not even eighteen yet and I'm already so drained. I want to be eleven again. It's that perfect age when everything is still simple but there's this subtle thrill behind everything of what we have yet to discover and what we have yet to choose to conquer. I want to feel unquestioned calmness again followed by the sudden rush of amusement in all those random little detail. I want to hope for cold nights without worrying about who's going to warm up my arms, and daydream about boats on thin sand again without wondering whose going to think I'm an idiot and whose going to appreciate my childlike innocence, idealism, and creativity.
I know I'm not the only one who wishes this. But we all have our story. This is mine, and this is how I explain myself through this gathering of these words, these curves and these lines.

Even if I never again get to sleep like I did when I was eleven, or never get to create that wonderful, big piece of work I so ache for others to see as as piece or art, I'm still okay with knowing I was lucky enough to exist, accident or not. I am blessed with an innumerable amount of details, that make up my story, that make me happy and so alive that it's difficult to breathe sometimes. I have the world at my fingertips, so I will take it. And it's okay to die.