Saturday, October 22, 2011

Please, oh, please...

I've taken the ACT, the SAT I and the ACT Plus Writing. I will be taking the SAT II Subject Test of Literature at the beginning of November. I will also be taking my hair out, for my nerves will have exploded by then.

I'm failing AP Chemistry. I know that much. The rest I have only a general idea of. I haven't checked for fear of it being even worse than I think. Besides, seeing it only ruins my day rather than motivating me to fix it. I get overwhelmed so easily, that knowing exactly how bad it is only makes it worse. It was the same when I was little; when I got a cut on my finger or a gash in my foot, I simply couldn't look at it if I was to avoid a fit of panic.  The same goes for grades.


To be honest, I've already had a paroxysm of hysteria. A few, actually. And that's without checking percentages- or even letters. My body is in so much physical pain from the turmoil and tumult in my mind. I can sit for less than a minute in the same position and then have my entire back crack when I move even slightly. My muscles have never been tied into such complex knots. Nor have the strings of thought that I play my chords off of. Everything is one, giant, bloody mess.


You know, my brother, a convicted felon, got re-accepted into Yale. I just want to get into a good four-year. Please, please just let me have this.

I took the ACT my junior year. The other three are all within weeks of each other. Granted, I'm no starving child in the underbellies of the world, but, please: I, too, want things to work out for me.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Inspiration

You ever get that feeling where you're truly inspired by something but... you're not sure how?


My mom works for a care facility and a patient there asked her to read some of his writings from after he had had a stroke. She brought the notebook home. English being my mother's second language and the writing itself being barely legible, she asked me to read it to her. It had some bits of odd dreams, but mostly the passages were recollections of a cowboy life. I know nothing about that sort of life and have never been interested, but somehow that writing captivated me. My mom told me this man is quite sharp- reads a lot. After finishing, she acquired a new blank notebook from my excess of school supplies to give to him. I asked her if I could write something to put in his new notebook for him to read.


As I sat down to a piece of paper, my thought process immediately geared itself to its default: poetry. There were no restrictions. There were no distractions. The materials were there. The internet was available to help me find rhymes and synonyms. A man, a writer, depicted pieces of his life and mentality after having a stroke and I had the privilege of being exposed to it. I was very inspired. Minutes passed and nothing magically appeared on my paper. 


I felt the surge of rhythm, I felt the blossoming of phrases, I felt the passion of writing- my lines stayed blank. 


How could it be? I felt the same tingling in my chest and rush of blood to my head, which I call the feeling of inspiration, yet I was having the hardest time figuring out how I was inspired. 


I've come to a conclusion. Some inspiration is simply meant to be felt. Not every feeling of surging rhythm or blossoming phrases must be depicted. When the words are naturally accompanied with the feeling, that's inspired writing. When the feeling comes stripped naked of formal language, that's inspiration by itself.