I asked the internet, but there weren’t any answers. It didn’t seem like anyone has ever asked this question before.
I’ve been trying to figure it out recently. The sun goes down later now, which I like, but I forgot that it would also start to rise later.
I’m not mad about it necessarily, I actually like to watch the sunrise sometimes. I just wish it would still come up at six every morning instead of seven, like it does now.
I always say that I wish sleep was optional. I love waking up early and I love staying up late, which becomes problematic when I’m running on five hours of sleep and way too much caffeine.
I fell asleep with my window open today. I didn’t really think much of it.
It was about eleven thirty in the morning when I went to sleep and I woke up three hours later.
It had gotten much breezier by the afternoon. And the light had changed.
I’ve always loved how the shifting sun makes everything look different. There is a distinct difference between how the light looks in the morning and in the afternoon. At 9 am, everything is bright, more of a white light. But by 3 or 4p m, it’s so much more yellow. And it feels different too, especially in the summertime.
I don’t know how to describe it exactly, I just know how it feels.
I’m still trying to find more ways to make the sun come up faster. I’ll let you know if I do.
it’s a sad kind of happy when i’m with you. i love being around you, you make me smile and laugh. you make me happy.
in all honesty, i think i love you. i really think i do.
we’re friends, we talk, we hang out sometimes. i like that.
sometimes you confuse me, though. sometimes i’ll think you feel the same way about me, but then you’ll ignore me the next day.
in all honesty, you’re confusing, so confusing.
but, that’s part of who you are.
i try to understand you, because there’s so much to understand. you’re talented in so many things, but you doubt yourself. you are loved by so many people, but you deny it. you say no one likes you, but you know that i’m here.
i’m here sitting by you right now. you’re looking out the window. we’re listening to music on your phone. i have the left ear bud, you have the right.
i’m happy right now, i’m with you, but it’s a sad kind of happy
we’re listening to love songs. sometimes, i pretend that the songs are a message. i pretend the songs are you telling me you love me…. but we both know that’s not true.
you told me about your grandma and it made me sad for you and her.
wow my heart is beating quickly… get up!! quick!!
i put new posters up in my room and they’re supposed to be empowering, but now my room looks like a stranger’s room and that’s just not right.
the shirt with the strawberry on it makes my arms look weird.
what you think sounds like art, i think it sounds like garage punk which is art, but the type i wanted to think you liked.
champagne supernova?? what does that even mean Oasis? what does it mean?! is it a collection of two different words or is it a phrase or a something only someone at NASA would understand or none of those?? what does it mean good? god, what does it mean?
i have a lot to do that i put off until 9 pm, but if i do it all i won’t get enough sleep which means tomorrow at around 9 pm i will start feeling anxious, which just won’t do tomorrow.
“how many special people change? how many lives were lived estranged?”
i shouldn’t have done that and i knew i shouldn’t do it before i did it, but then, i did it and it wasn’t worth it, i shouldn’t have done it.
it’s 10:45 pm, so it’s inevitable that tomorrow no matter what, at around 9 pm, i will start feeling anxious; i’m pretty much screwed.
it’s ok that you’re not around very much anymore, but i miss you and that makes it feel like it’s not okay. but i would never want to make you feel bad, therefore, it’s all okay.
i slept for 30 minutes today in the middle of the day, which was weird because i don’t sleep during the day but i wished i could have slept for longer at the time, but i couldn’t because i had to practice speaking spanish that doesn’t even help because i forget how to say grass every single time no matter how many times i write it down.
at this point, i’ll just stay up all night because it’s inevitable that tomorrow, no matter what, at around 9 pm i will start feeling anxious.
I like coffee now. I used to always think it tasted like fancy dirt water, no matter how much milk and sugar I’d put in it.
But, I really like it now. I like the deep, bitter taste of it and I especially like the smell of it.
I’m starting to like a lot of those things that I used to consider “adult things”. I like watching the news or reading articles on whether or not organic eggs are better than regular eggs. I like having red wine with my dinner (only when I’m in Germany, I promise). I like waking up early on the weekends, to get as much out of my day as possible, and even take in a pastel sunrise once in a while.
I guess I’ve waited for this period in my life for a long time now. I always imagined that when I’d graduate, I’d essentially be an adult. I’d be mature and responsible. I’d be a little taller at least and my skin would have cleared up and I would know how to do taxes.
Truth is, I’m still getting there. Maybe I won’t grow any taller and maybe I’ll need to work on my maturity a bit, but I’m on the right track. I’m transitioning, I guess.
All this is what I’ve been waiting for, and it’s exciting. But, I like coffee now and it makes me sad, because I realize that, soon, I won’t be able to be a kid anymore.
When I was around six years old, I remember my parents slowly walking up to me in the morning and giving me a hug. They kneeled down beside me and said in a soft, slow, sad, and apologetic voice: “I’m sorry, honey. The raccoons got Mrs. Frizzel last night.”
I sobbed for hours. I was sad for days. I made my parents have a funeral. My tears fell to the ground as we buried my dead chicken. My parents bought a chick that I raised and loved, but I still missed Mrs. Frizzel.
When I was eight, Fluffy and Ginger passed away. My parents broke the news to me in the same way. I cried the same way as I had before. I got two more chicks.
When I was twelve, my parents again approached me with the same sad tone and told me that that a couple of our chickens died in their sleep. I didn’t cry as much when they died, partially because I was old enough to understand that everything dies of old age at some point. It was much more bearable. I would be sad, but not sobbing like I had done in the past.
Today, I came home and asked if he bought food at the store. He said no. Something happened, so he had to come home. “What I happened?” I asked.
“The neighbors dog got into our yard and into the chicken coop,” he said with a flat tone.
“You stopped right, the chickens are okay?”
“No,” he said. “They are dead, all but three are dead.” He said it with the same flat tone.
He just told me straight up, assuming I wouldn’t be sad. No soft, slow, sad, or apologetic voice. He patted my back and walked away.
I went outside. The corpses were gone. All that remained was feathers.
Eight year old me popped in to my mind. The funeral for Mrs. Frizzel. My parents stroking my back and telling me everything was going to be okay.
There would be no funeral, my dad had put their limp bodies in the trash before I came home. There would be no comfort from my parents. Fifteen year olds don’t cry when their chickens die.
I’m shouldn’t be sad. I’m too old to be sad. But, I’m sad.
I remembered holding the chickens when they were less than a week old. Moving them to the big coop when they were old enough. Hand-feeding them mealworms and celebrating the day that they laid their first egg.
I raised them. They are dead now.
If I was a child I would be sobbing in my parents arms. Now, I’m sobbing alone.
I know if I went to them they would comfort me, but there’s an age where you need to accept reality on your own.
Being treated like a child is now nonexistent. Just like my chickens.
When I was little, if I had a lot of homework, my parents would tell me I could do it and tell me I could have a cookie when I finished. Now, when I complain about my homework, they say lots of homework is part of growing up.
When I was little, my parents were by me at every moment to guide me through life. Now, I am old enough where I need to handle things on my own.
When I was younger, my parents could fix everything. They could make everything feel better. In their arms, I was safe.
Yes, the death of my chickens is part of the reason I’m crying. But, there’s more to the tears running down my cheek.
No matter how much I want to believe it, my parents can’t fix everything. As much as I want it to, they can’t hug me and make me not be sad. As desperately as I want to deny it, my parents can’t protect me anymore.
I don’t know why all of this came from a dog breaking into my chicken coop, but it did…
Rest in peace Lucky, Trouble, Darwin, Lemon, Pepper, Oreo, and Henry. I may not be a child anymore, but I still love you and miss you.
How am I supposed to tell you who I am in 650 words? Are 650 words really going to tell you who I am and why you should choose me for your school?
I am more than 650 words. I am 650 pages that are still be written. There are too many stories for you to know who I truly am from only 650 words. Only one small story will be able to fit in these 650 words, so don’t think this is truly me. Please don’t believe that this is all I am and all I can be. I am so much more than this small part of my life. The story has impacted me a great deal, but it is not the only thing that has.
When you read this please remember that I am a novel and 650 words will not do me justice. So college admissions counselor, read these 650 words and remember they are just a taste of what I could be and not all of me.
I’ve gotten myself in the habit of writing down my feelings.
I’m not sure that habit is the proper term, though. I’ve found it’s actually quite therapeutic at times to be able to physically sort out my emotions into something that is easier for me to understand.
When I feel angry or sad or happy, my first reaction is to analyze and explain it and then eventually sort it out into something that is comprehensible or maybe even beautiful to some people, sometimes I try to feel things simply in the way they are.
There are times when I can write for an hour, without stopping, and the result will be something I’m proud of. But when I find myself struggling to choose the right words, I know it’s time to put down my pen and just feel it for a while.
I’m constantly analyzing experiences, people, feelings. I guess maybe it’s because I don’t like to be confused, so when I don’t understand how I feel or why I’m feeling it, I won’t stop thinking it over and over until I reach a resolution.
I like to understand how I’m feeling. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.
But just like with my favorite books and songs, most of the time I just appreciate them for what they mean to me, even if I can’t fully explain why. And I think there’s something special about that too.