The bounds of our small universe never cease to frustrate me. It seems like everything has been done before; that everything is boring and repetitive.
My mom doesn't think so. She's convinced that I'm somehow able to create these new, exciting combinations. I'm skeptical, like usual.
I marvel at my happiness, but somehow I know that something is missing. Well, who am I kidding. There's always something missing, no matter who you are. Everyone has regrets, fears, reservations. Who am I to claim these unique and special; specific to ourselves. No one seems to understand that everyone goes through these same fears.
Yet I wonder if everyone sees what I see, if everyone sees the beauty, the color that I do. Is the sky really blue? Is my blue someone else's green? Do we all see the same shade, but really it is different? We can't define color with words, it's color, purely visual.
I'm feeling strange tonight. I don't feel like writing about food, or even about life. I feel like doing something stupid, reckless by any standard. I think that everyone struggles with feeing purposeless, roaming around in this world with no direction.
This seems especially prominent with kids my age. High school is supposed to be a time for discovering your passion but it really ends up being a high-drama, high-tension world where the standards are a little troublesome. You're supposed to know your passion and direction as soon as you begin. I'm struggling.
Floundering is more like it. Every night I lay awake and think, picture myself in a pencil skirt and pumps running around as a businesswoman, in the noble uniform of a paramedic, the uniform of a chef, the white coat of a physician, the fatigues of a soldier, the frazzled-yet-together ensemble of a teacher or even the simplicity of an artist. Each of these possibilities flash through my mind as I stare up at the ceiling, longing for stars rather than drywall. We're told from birth "you can be anything, honey!" That's simply not true. If everyone was a doctor or a lawyer we'd have a serious crisis on our hands.
I don't know whether my passions should be my career. For me the choices I make now are going to affect the rest of my life. I hate the humiliation of beginning again, and I love being good at things; the best. The natural option for me is to stick with one thing, no matter what that is, for the rest of my life. If only I could find out what that thing is.
Looking at this post you could swear that four different people with four very different trains of though wrote it. I'm all over the place tonight, just trying to find some sort of equilibrium. Maybe my rash musings are just grasping at strings trying to find my even. I seriously have never been more confused.
That was almost a week ago. I've been pondering this post ever since, wondering if i should post it, or whether it's too personal. In case you didn't notice, I decided on the latter.
Paris Puffins (aka french breakfast muffins, almost-donuts)
Adapted from the Betty Crocker Cookbook