Struggling to find inspiration from something new, I found a special spark from my past.
Though sixteen-year-old me was quite literally two years ago, for a girl who has barely lived two decades, it is a drastic change. And so, here I am, sharing with you an excerpt of my exclusive thoughts from two summers ago, in the hopes of encapsulating the exact same thoughts from helpless spirits like myself. Boy was I lost.
And I still am. I am forever a work in progress--a reality that sweet 16 Margaret failed to recognize.
Here goes nothing.
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"Paralyzed"
Motivation comes through, imagination runs wild, yet I sit still. I have these thoughts in my head, aspirations, and urges, though I haven’t moved an inch. Not because I am physically incapable, but my internal inhibitions seem to always manifest. If my good old conscience just disappeared, I would be in the other side of the world. I would be jumping off the Niagara Falls, hiking the Appalachian Mountains, and endeavoring the Safari. Although, there is this one small thing: I can’t swim. I am exhausted after an hour of gym class. I am physically unqualified, yet my mind is willing to lift the heaviest of barbels. That’s the deal: I live in my head–I experience, dream, absorb…in an unheard and echoed space. No one can hear my cries, but me. You see, even starting this blog took a lot of external internal exertion. Sounds paradoxical, I know, though it encompasses my struggles. My thoughts stay as thoughts. And I have been attempting to release such spontaneity, yet I am afraid of the societal response.
Writing has always been the only way that somehow, my personal expressions are released. Actually, now that I think about it, the only people who have seen these special glimpses in my mind are my teachers (Thanks DBQs and Synthesis essays). There, my thoughts matter. There, I get a response–without exactly being held accountable for it. Well, let me re-phrase that: sure they will criticize you, but they are there to appreciate you when appropriate and criticize you when necessary. If these ideas were publicly released, say on twitter or in normal conversation, people would most likely look at me like I have two heads. Or three. Or none.
I want to make a profound impact in this world, though I still don’t know exactly how. My movements are limited, staged, and precisely measured. The me that others see is refined, hesitant, and carefully screened. I may seemingly be spontaneous, carefree, and deceivingly content, yet the world has not seen all of me. I want to, but she remains hidden. She is still comfortable in her empty and lonely realm.
She may be alone, but at least, she is safe.