when I first heard about the moth, I was in my freshman year theatre class. we watched a performance by a guy who talked about a terrible haircut some of his family members gave him. It was funny, well rounded, and interesting. To cap off that unit we were instructed to tell our entire class a story up on the state. The catch was it could be real or fake, and the audience would have to guess. I told one about my dad because I'm not that interesting and have a terrible memory of my own stories, but I could probably remember any one you've ever told me.
That's the thing, I remember everything but myself. Because I quite literally tend to forget myself. When you aren't the main character in you're story it's hard to remember everything. So I remember your's. Here's somethings about me that I know, though:
I have a photographic memory, but not actually photographic like Lexie Grey like I read a page in a book and remember it word for word, oh no. But it's something like that. I can remember words and phrases of course, but the peak of this memory is that I remember the contents of pictures. If you pulled up a picture that I had something to do with, I can tell you everything about what was happening, where we were, what day that was, and probably everything that happened that day, because somehow I cannot remember words or formulas, but I remember life and people and places. I guess that somehow feels better.
I'd like to think I'm semi-psychic. Bare with me, I know, but it's not half untrue! I can almost always guess the time of year, and sometimes even month, a person is born just based on their personality. I've got a great track record of knowing what song is up next in a random shuffle. And I always flip to the exact page I'm looking for in a book, first try. But those are dumb, because the problem is they aren't reliable, usually. Nonetheless the biggest thing I am often plagued with are feelings of imminent doom. Anxiety for you right there. Last year I thought the entire month of September, specifically the 20th, that something extremely terrible was going to happen in the world. It was such an urgent and real feeling, it was like someone literally told me that it was guaranteed. And yet, nothing. For me it was an alright month I think. But that honestly makes me wonder where those feelings come from, because surely something terrible probably happened to someone during that month, specifically on the 20th? What if feelings like that, or feelings of overwhelming sadness, happiness, or anger, that are inexplicable in relation to our own lives come from some internal connection to that of someone else's? We feel these feelings so deeply because they are real, but they just aren't ours? Whatever force drives our universe is given some satisfaction from people not being alone in their emotions, even if those people undergoing those emotions could end up thousands of miles apart. But maybe it has to be random. Maybe this randomness occasionally allows people right next door to experience this same rage, inexplicable to one, and a crystal clear reality to the other. Is it possible that our universe runs so deep within us that it sympathizes with our inert desire to be relatable? This is what I wonder in retrospect of September. Could someone else have just experienced some horrible news and thus waited on edge the entire month just ready for the inevitably terrible while I stood by and just dealt with it? The thought of this is so far fetched but it makes such perfect sense because the truth is there are so many of us I highly doubt there has never been a moment where no one has felt just about the exact same as you for exactly the same or highly different reasons?
I am so violently average it makes me want to be sick. I will tell you that there is something in my head, all the time, telling me that if I pushed myself just a bit more: An inch higher, an hour longer, a page more, somehow my smarts and athletic ability would miraculously skyrocket. I'd like to think that, but is it really true? I've read a lot lately about whether smarts are inherit or earned. Is it persistence, doggedness, or is it raw, pure talent for absorbing information. Let me tell you that I possess just about neither. I love to learn, I hate criticism, I will admit flat out that I do not take it well, especially from people unexpected. I think studying is worth it completely, and I do it, but sometimes it feels like no matter how long and hard I do it it wouldn't make a difference. Wanna know something funny? This year my worst two exam grades came from my favorite and least favorite class. Math and English, I'll let you guess based on what I'm literally doing right now which is the favorite. Anyways, I studied for that math exam for hours. I went through the study guide and found stuff I was confused on and reviewed and drilled on it until I was sure I knew it. I came into class super early, the first one there, that day to ask my teacher questions and have her work out problems for me, and then came the test. In my mind? A breeze. I was surely going to keep my B in the class, at least. Then a few days later I took my English exam. Now this is an A.P class, but we still were given a study guide with literary concepts, schemes, tropes, etc. So naturally I assumed that's what the test would be on. But it wasn't. The good news was I had 100% seen this same test used before. I remembered the excerpts that we had to answer questions on, but that didn't mean I was sure that I'd do amazing. Then both grades came back. I got a D on both. I was astounded. How is it possible to study for something so hard and so long, like I did for both these, and somehow not be rewarded. When this happens I feel so low and so helpless and so useless its inexplicable. The utter defeat isn't sad because it's defeat, it's sad because it shouldn't have been. I know plenty of people who don't study, don't care, and don't listen and just pass with flying colors. I can't explain that type of rage that comes from trying you're absolute hardest and being met with a slap in the face from someone who couldn't care less about their future when all you're trying to do is lock down yours. When this happens the only place I take my mind to is the universe. I don't believe everything happens for a reason most of the time, I think there are a lot of situations and events that were caused by the raw cruelty of human nature that is uncreditable to some higher power telling us to wait and that it'll get better. I think that's extremely unfair to especially Holocaust victims and survivors and to genocide victims and survivors and to anyone who has experienced something so horrible and cruel they have never wanted or remotely asked to go through. That's minimizing their problems by providing some kind of imaginary outcome to make yourself feel better about the fact there was nothing you could do. But nonetheless in that time I have to force myself into the solace that the universe fails me and hurts me because it wants to prepare me for greatness. But what the universe might lose in the process is that is ridiculous and that I find failure very excruciating when those around me are succeeding with no merit surrounding it. It's stupid and unfair and yeah life isn't fair but it should be because in truth the people whose lives aren't fair because the people whose lives are actually unfair are the ones whose lives should be fair and the people telling them life is unfair are the ones whose lives are perfect. I simply cannot except the fact that some higher power is pushing me down every time I get back up to make me "stronger". I think experience is key to life but I don't think that should be accompanied by endless humiliation as a result of whatever that person considers failure.
I love writing. I love it over everything I've done in my life. I love typing on this computer because although I like my composition notebook I find that my hand can't keep up with my brain and by the time the thought is there I've lost the next one. The keys allow me to move fast enough to keep up with my brain and my words and my thoughts. I like that a lot. I would have never lasted a day writing before keyboards or at least typewriters;) Lately with my writing I've had a really hard time finding the words once I get there. Today is a good day to write, they often hit me when I least expect them, just like today, and then I just have to go and do it. I have to get to a keyboard and just release it all. My brain would overflow into my mouth if I couldn't write. It would be awful. But lately when I think i'm all set and ready to write some riveting story I've planned out in my brain, I just cannot find the words. You know the saying "words fail?" I have never once understood that because for me words are the only things that I know I can rely on. And that's what's so frustrating. Even when everything around me is shitty or sad or whatever I know for a fact that I will always have a library upstairs in my head. It's pretty and dim and warm and it smells exactly how a good library smells. It's perfectly quiet and the shelves are stocked. But not with books, with words. All my words, like I and you and me and we. They're stacked and ordered in no way imparticular but they somehow make sense. And in the back there's a special reading room with a single shelf on it. It isn't full, but there's a number of things on it. These are special, extraordinary words. My favorite words. They are the ones I keep in the notes section of my phone and read to some uninterested soul whenever they'll have me. Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconeosis. Espionage. Kiosk. Juxtaposition. Ganglioside. Redacted. Iodine. Syndicate. Melancholy. Cauterize. Cultivate. Iodine and Diluted. They all sit perfectly, beautifully, and when I use them and they roll off my tongue like honey. That's serotonin in its for me. Pretty words, soft sentences, keys clicking. I love it. So much. And although I said words have failed me occasionally lately, I know they won't for long. They are my words, these are my words. I love my words.
