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OQB
Join Date: Mar 2015
Location: Frownland
Posts: 8,831
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You know, it's kind of funny to think about when you look at the grand scheme of things. Here I am, about to finish high school and pursue a career in journalism, with dreams of diving into the pool of music journalists head-first, holding onto the hope that I'll be able to swim and not sink despite my inexperience; and yet, lately I've struggled with consistency and often times, I just lack the effort required to do any sort of writing.
Instead, I sit at my desk, eyes fixed on the brightly lit screen of the MacBook Pro that will be my co-pilot on my journey for the foreseeable future. I want to write, scratch that, I need to write, and yet I can't. The scholarship applications are stacked thick on top of the black Canon printer to my right, and the deadlines, ranging from next week, all the way to next month, taunt me. They can't speak obviously, I mean, they're all just flimsy pieces of paper after all, right? In spite of that, I can still hear them talking.
"Come on, you don't have much time left."
"You really think you can afford to let this money just slip through your fingers?"
"You know, you probably wouldn't get this one anyway."
At this point, I just want the world to stop spinning. I want to stay where I'm at with life until I'm ready to move on. I want my biggest worry to be which friends' house I'll be crashing at after the next party, not how and if I will be able to micromanage my spending for the next four years in a reasonable fashion. Unfortunately, the Earth will be continuing it's rotation for the time being, and despite my urge to do the complete opposite; I have no choice but choosing to grow up. And so the routine starts again:
Open Microsoft Word.
Stare at the cursor, it flashes slowly before my eyes, pleading to me, begging me to just start typing.
I'll check my phone, maybe something new is happening on one of the various social media sites I browse. I mean, it has been almost 15 minutes now since the last time I checked it.
Back to my computer screen, and it's still just a big blank canvas, waiting to be painted by sentence after sentence of qualifications, past experiences, and any other achievement I can use to persuade the reader that I'm the best choice for the grant, even though I'm not. I mean, surely the other applicants aren't procrastinating like me, are they?
Jennifer from Ontario is probably a straight A student, planning to major in political sciences before pursuing her law degree so that she can follow in her father's footsteps and become a lawyer herself. I'm sure her ambition to succeed is the reason why she's writing right now.
And Alex from Montreal, well, Alex he comes from a storied background to say the least. His mother died when he was still crawling around in diapers, and the only other relationship his father has held since has been with the neck of a beer bottle. He has no choice but to write, whether he wants to or not, he needs to, his future depends on it.
I can't relate to Jennifer or Alex. I've never faced that kind of adversity, and I've never had a real drive to succeed. I've just kind of, well, lived, I suppose. No real end goal for me, no way folks, I'm just doing whatever it takes to ensure that I keep floating on by and living to see another day. Now that I think about it, maybe that is my talent. Is simply "existing" enough of a challenge that I should be proud of achieving 18 years of it? If only just existing was the recipe for happiness, and held the answer to my problems.
As the spider in the corner of my room stares back at me, I contemplate talking to him. I just want someone to hear me out. I don't need to talk to a friend who will just agree back, and tell me whatever it is they think I need to hear. I don't want to talk to a family member either, they'll tell me to grow up and stop whining about the things that need to be done. I want someone who won't talk back, someone who will sit and listen, or, hang I suppose. But not even the spider who spends his day upside down in a room cluttered with dirty clothes and assorted collectibles would want to hear what it is I have to say. I don't even think I want to hear what I have to say, honestly.
The sad truth is, I could talk for minutes, hours, days even, and still, I would be saying nothing in the end.
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