The other day I found myself deeply analyzing every aspect of my life. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and it certainly wasn’t a good idea for me to continue, but I couldn’t stop. I sat there in class, re-living every small detail of my short, pathetic life, and I came to the conclusion that it is unusually, unspeakably boring.
For one of my English classes, we have to write essays Personal essays, lyric essays, digital essays. We’re learning all the different ways you can tell a story. But here’s the thing: I don’t have very many stories to tell.
My first was about the state championship game, but it was all about how I was an irrelevant, forgettable member to this amazing team. It was about how confused and undeserving I felt through it all and how I, to this day, don’t know how to feel. In fact, it wasn’t much of a story at all. I played soccer, I was just decent enough to continue with varsity, and they won the championships. I wrote about my inner thoughts and feelings and analyzed how it all made me feel and how my life will be spent trying to accomplish more than this feat that I wasn’t really a part of.
My second story was about the root of my insecurity issues. Once again, not a story. Just some comments that have been made over the years, the changing of my mindset and the way I see my reflection in the mirror, and how I act nowadays.
But these aren’t stories.
I don’t have a story.
And that’s kind of why I started this blog–at least that’s what I said. In my first post, I said that I don’t have a story, but I want one. I am a protagonist in a novel that is going nowhere. But just once I want something spectacular to happen.
But those things don’t just happen. At least not to people like me.
So the other day I was looking up personal essay ideas because for my third essay in my English class, I have no idea what to write about. And that’s when these realizations hit me.
The experience of overcoming a fear. The proudest moment of your life. Your most fortunate day. A visitor that you can’t forget. A special morning. A kiss that meant a lot.
I read these ideas and nothing came to mind. Nothing. Sure, I’ve had good days and proud moments, but nothing story-telling worthy.
And there were other ideas that should’ve made me feel fortunate that they didn’t prompt a memory. The hardest news you had to deliver. The ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. When you needed a hug. A disastrous date. The breakup of a friendship.
Nothing has happened to me.
I’m eighteen years old and I haven’t felt true pain or true happiness. I haven’t done anything worth writing about and I haven’t learned anything worth sharing. I’ve never been head-over-heels in love and I’ve never been heartbroken. I’ve never been addicted and I’ve never overcame an evil. I’ve never needed to be strong and I’ve never broken down because I’m weak.
I don’t want a broken home or a problem trusting people because I’ve been hurt. I don’t want to hate my simple life, but I can’t help be bored with it all. I don’t wish for all the sorrow in the world unless it can help me feel truly happy–a feeling that I don’t think I’ve yet felt.
So I don’t know where I’m going with this. Just like I don’t know where I’m going in life, I guess. I’m not going to go smoke crack or drop out of school or stir up drama in my life.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just know I have to be careful.
Because right now I’m searching for something more out of life. After all, it’s supposed to be this indescribable stream of events that make you who you are and teach you more than you could ever learn in a classroom.
But for me it’s entirely underwhelming.
And I know that if I look to make it more, I’m going to encounter plenty of sorrow searching for joy.
I just think in the end, it could be worth it.
PS. The best cover of Hey Ya (by Outkast) that I’ve ever seen/heard. Enjoy.