Evolution of a Virgo

Four years… four years of highschool drudgingly slowly.  Goodness, not only the ejaculatory statement, but so much goodness has come out of these years.  They’ve been essential to me, and how could they not when everything we are is the sum of our experiences?  It’s odd how things come full circle; I started highschool an awkward blonde with zits and emotional issues and have gone through many self-reinventions, living vicariously through friends and enemies, trying to find myself and here I am with three fleeting days left in this public school prison a blonde with zits and emotional issues, but stronger.  A pink streak runs through my hair on the left side, an almost metaphor for how life strains you, molding you into the person you’ve become. 

“I am not an angel,’ I asserted; ‘and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself… you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me – for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.” [JANE EYRE]

I’ve lost all innocence.  Entering highschool is like leaving Eden.  You see the world and all it’s flaws and when you go home with five hours of homework, if you have enough time to fancy a look in the mirror, you’ll see the short-comings of the world engrained on your face.  I’m grateful, though.  I’m grateful for all the hurt I’ve been in.  I’m grateful for those years of depression, for they were introspective, and when someone cared enough to pull me out of that well of despair I was wallowing in, I always saw the world in a brighter light.  It’s all part of the human experience.

I fall in love atleast 100 times a day.  I love a celebrity I read about in the Rolling Stone as they pour their soul out to the masses, crying out, hoping there’s a simular soul out there.  I fall in love with the authors I read whose minds are printed in black and white on these pages I read.  I love the woman at the movie theatre with the long, dirty blonde hair and the faux leather jacket what wears no makeup, but is so pretty it kills you.  I fall in love with the old man in the greasy spoon sipping his coffee, black with sugar, and breathing deeply his Paul Malls, reminising on better times.  I fall in love with the couple in the red corvette that fish in the Jesus pond on Sunday afternoons.  I fall in love with Britney Spears as she sings “Lucky,” and I want to cry… she’s such a lost soul.  I fall in love with my teachers and my peers.  I fall in love with convicts and divas.  Humanity has such a hold on my heart, and it breaks so easily.  I’m fragile.  On my hands, (OH HANDS SO WEARY OF OUR TOILS AND TRYS!) like shackles of my broken heart are mementos of those I’ve loved and lost, and though they forget me, I love for forever.

See how the Potter still molds me?  Each of us is a beautiful mosaic of the people we’ve met.  Bits and pieces of them colour my black and white body.  I thank God, (not everyday, cause in my petty ignorance, I’m often put off or mad at God) for all these so HUMAN experiences I’ve had.

I’ve found myself.  I’m finding myself.  The journey won’t stop till I die.  And I’m so in love with being alive.  So in these four years of Cinderella story, so like Jane Eyre, I’ve aquired a prince charming, been discoloured by soot and embers, been given life by so many fairy godmothers, and am leaving in a few days in a pumpkin carriage to start my happily everafter.  Amen.