Eternity

So, I have been following this blog called Every Photo Tells a Story, and basically the point of the blog is to spur on creativity. The blogger posts a photo daily, sometimes with a promt, and people submit stores and poetry in response. Personally I just like the pictures; I mainly deal in thoughts. But today's photo and theme sort of struck a chord in my thoughts, and I feel like it'd be fun to actually write something. I really don't think fiction is my thing (although I have tried my hand at it once or twice, I will not lie), and poetry always comes out as a disastrous disarray of unfocused thoughts and fuzzy feelings, but this photo stirred up memories. And since I don't think the words "every photo tells a story" should emcompass only make-believe, I will go on and discuss my memories.

This is the photo, taken by Dungha, a photographer in Romania who specializes in street photography. His pictues are really extraordinarily beautiful - I highly suggest visiting the page. (just be warned, music will play. If your rommate is asleep, as mine was, they will not appreciate your volume on max). But now onto writing about this picture:

It’s funny how as a child, forever feels like a tangible goal. When you told your friend in first grade that you’d be friends forever, you meant it – pinky promise. Yet as time wore on, you changed, moved on, and forever ended. Then one day you became an adult, and now you don’t even try to promise forever. You barely even promise next week, penciling in your former friend for coffee, knowing that you’d drop the date if something more important came along. But remember the days when there wasn’t anything more important? The days when your biggest concern was making it home before the streetlights came on and your parents would begin to worry? When being line-leader for the day was the best thing that could ever happen to you? When you skinned your knee and just got up and kept on running? Those days were simpler, better. It’s sad that every child must grow up - must lose the innocence of forever.

That’s one reason I like old pictures – pictures of me as a child, pictures of my parents as children, pictures of strangers. It’s a moment captured in time, a child who will never lose the innocence and youth associated with believing in things. I have this old picture of myself from the third grade. My hair is flipped out and frizzing; I’m wearing maroon, red, and yellow simultaneously; and I smiling foolishly up at my dad as he snaps a photo of me trying to lure a pigeon to my arm. For some reason I really love this picture. It captures a moment in my life where I was completely happy. I couldn’t imagine doing anything better with my life, and my main goal was to touch a pigeon. Who am I to keep such a gem from you:

I decorated that jacket myself with fabric paint. My mom didn't really think there was a point in hampering my "creativity" so she let me not only clothe myself, but actually personalize my clothes too. I suppose I had help with that design though, most likely aided heavily by stencils.

I grew out of my habit of mismatching clothes around fifth grade, when I retired the oversized orange tie-dye shirt I made at camp 3 years back. Someone had made fun of it, and I succumbed to pressure to fit in, so I threw it in my "Good Will" bag. I think that was the moment I started caring what others thought. Once you start that process, it doesn't stop, and soon, you're no longer a child.

I bet you're wondering what this has to do with the black-and-white photo above... I actually am too. I think it's because those kids reminded me of my childhood...

I discuss my former self

It’s really weird to me how college shapes and changes you. For instance, when I came to college I was a pleasant teenager who rarely cursed, never broke the rules, and generally refused to find fault in anyone. Now I’m a somewhat crude adult who enjoys cursing to show any emotion and bending rules like it’s my job. My waist has expanded along with my movie knowledge - so basically at an alarming rate – and I have discovered I actually enjoy hamburgers immensely (before this year, I would never eat them unless it’s what my mom put before me at the dinner table). I now have no qualms with releasing my bowels in a public restroom (or talking about it, as you can see) and I learned how to burp earlier this year. I often wonder if the old me would be friends with the new me; I think it would be a beautiful friendship. We still have some similarities – the ability to squander away hours upon hours of precious time, the lack of desire to actually put forth an effort into anything, the capacity to talk for an extended amount of time without running out of lame stories and silly ideas… All the things that I sort of wished to change back then, and which I have learned to accept now. The old me would like the sense of confidence the new me has; she’d probably do a mental eye roll at my tendency towards sweats over cute tops or skirts, but inside be a bit jealous. She’d definitely wonder how she became me…

I never planned to be so unashamed of my life or thoughts. I always wanted to achieve a bold sense of self, but not with this self – the one who inwardly, sometimes outwardly, laughs at other’s stupid choices or similar misfortunes. I wanted it to be with a self who was sure of her intelligence, was sure where life was taking her, and was going somewhere such as the top – quickly. So now it’s somewhat weird to look back with sweet disappointment on how much I fell short of my dreams from senior year of high school, and then to laugh at those dreams for their sheer unfeasibility. It’s as if my high school self thought that college would make me a completely different person. I have never been, and never will be, a morning person. Sorry old self, you knew deep down that you would never in your life succeed at waking up at 6AM every morning to run a mile or two. Really, you should know that you’ll most likely never run a mile, and definitely not two. You should have known that you weren’t going to start working on papers as soon as they were assigned. Procrastinators rarely ever change. You weren’t suddenly going to start writing for the school paper just because you were a Journalism major, and you definitely weren’t going to become the editor of Marie Claire in the next couple of years.

Which brings me to my next difference – I came in as a Journalism major, with a minor (and great love for) German. Now I’m an Accounting major who is still getting her minor in German, but wants to cry nearly every night as she sits over the homework for those ridiculous classes (Thank God I’m almost done with that). I’ve discovered that I love Accounting and all of its boring facets. My only major apprehension with the entire situation is that every accountant I’ve ever met has been completely boring in their appearance and actions. They’ve all been perfectly nice people, but I think sitting and counting funds all day has really sucked the life out of them. I really don’t want to be dull when I get older. I want to be exciting and fun. Of course, what adult can be exciting and fun to a teenager or young adult? If they’re fun, a little piece of you wonders about their maturity level and why they never grew up. I want to grow up at some point… but not for at least the next 10 years.

Funny story – I started out to discuss my new-found love for all things baking. Obviously that didn’t happen, and I’m running out of time. How bothersome. There’s one thing that has yet to change – my inability to focus on anything. My papers/essays generally generate comments to the tune of “lacks focus,” “horrible transitions. I don’t see how you got from one idea to the next,” or my personal favorite, “displays complex thought!” That last one always makes me giggle because if they could hear the constant white noise going on in my brain, they’d understand that I merely tuned in to a couple of those brain waves for short amounts of time and wrote down what was on my mind. Yes, comparing the evolution of communism to the process of baking a cake was extremely intriguing and thoughtful, but I should probably let you know that I was thinking about communism because your prompt told me to write about it, and cake was on my mind because my birthday was coming up and I was trying to decide what flavor I wanted. I guess it worked out in the end though, so no complaints.

And with that one last trip off of the supposed path of this blog entry, I’m going to go ahead and end it. I shall write about cooking another day. Maybe I’ll combine it with my newly revived love of homemade smoothies to make it longer, and possibly less boring.