I have come to a realization that I have no business doing what I want to do. I have given up the idea of brilliance because it is a superfluous endeavor that only leaves one wanting.
My classes are proving to me that I am a person who is too wrapped up in the complexity of her own ideas to express them in the coherence of grammatical mechanisms. Yes, I am nineteen years old and I cannot express myself. This is a devastating realization when for most of your life all you thought you wanted was to write.
Everything I write is riddled with errors. I am asked to analyze, specify, clarify, synthesize, proof read, and it is all in within a definite limit. These tasks most people around me can do with such startling efficiency that I am left spending hours grappling with a paper of a mere 300 words.
And I it is because of this that I cannot be understood. This is the single most thing that kills me the most.
The mirror reflects this disillusionment from the bags under my eyes to the hole in my head. I am reduced to merely waiting and a desperate wanting for betterment. Waiting consumes me whether it is waiting for my hair to grown or waiting for my body to become something I want. And though it all I am still stuck in the mental traps that Maria taught me to get out of.
I guess I just don’t know.
I am sitting in Nielson Library at a lonely little carrel on the third floor facing nothing but shelf after shelf of books. Under normal circumstances, I sit at at the carrel near the window so I can look outside. College students spend so much time indoors for classes and studying that they tend to forget to look out windows. It is something I know full well since a large chunk of time is gobbled up into pursuit of knowledge. And so, the library is becoming a third home.
I am sitting at this lonely, little carrel because the one near the window is occupied by a bee. This bee is frantically crawling up and down the window. I have never seen such frantic desperation in something so small. This bee, knowing full well that its attempts for escape are futile, still dashes itself against the window trying to get outside. It would violently fling itself against the glass and, as though in a daze, fall backwards onto the window ledge. It writhes back and forth before flipping itself up to crawl again for another chance to get back to it’s world.
I am paralyzed to my chair, bees have always frightened me. Each furtive glance brings another stab of fear and it’s venom is spreading. The way the windows work at the Library are foreign to me. The thought of being in the bee’s direct path would garner nothing except a sting. The certainly of being stung clouds my mind and I can only watch until bee flies close to my elbow. Then probability becomes too high and I move to the carrel facing the shelves to escape. I wonder if God looks at us in the same way but without the fear? Are we crawling towards God?
The bee reminds me of humanity its smallness. I find myself lying with my back against the hard wood of the window ledge, merely looking up at the huge, looming window of knowledge. Knowing, that I can only ever be sure of the climb and not the getting out. The getting out becomes hope or something like it. It is not guarantied but it is worthy of pursuit.
LATER: I pack my bag and rush off to class and give a quick glance to the window. There is no bee crawling on the glassy surface. The bee lies on it’s back against the hard wood of the window ledge. The limbs are rigid against it’s torso and I know it is dead.
A single phrase that one of my professors said comes back to me. ”I promise that you will all die successfully.” Promise fulfilled.
On the front of every newspaper were various photos of the sky filled with gaping black holes between a backdrop of azure blue. Something was horribly wrong. There was panic and then most people’s thoughts turned to the people whom they imagined to be gods on earth to fix the problem. In the first few minutes, I will admit that I thought the same. But then I thought of what I guessed the other side of most people thought of: loved ones. It was then I remembered that I had no loved ones to speak of. The only person to call me on my birthday was Andy from RedTech systems, who attempted sell me an air conditioner in seven minutes. I don’t know which is worse. The fact that Andy was my only call on my birthday or that I stood there and listened to the whole thing.
When the hell did it get this bad?
How could I forget? When I moved to the a fishbowl apartment in the city to get away from Ashburn. A fishbowl apartment is one with four walls and only enough room for a goldfish. Guess who the goldfish is?
Ashburn the kind of town where your family name defines who you will be for the rest of your life in the eyes of the locals.
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