Fearing of Flying

After this year, any remnants of fear I felt for failure must absolutely be gone. If I had ever felt afraid of failing, then it must be a long ago memory because I realized today at 4:38 A.M. that I began this year grappling with the prospect of imminent failure multiple times in majoring of Physics.

I don't fear the close explosions of a bad homework grade. I used to hesitate at the top of my pencil, waiting for hours and hours on the blank lined pages. If I knew how easy it was to just start writing and scribbling and doodling what came to mind, then I may be much better off now. The fear gripped my hand and kept it suspended for so long, putting off the fear and the progress and the success.

But now that I think about it, I feared failing. And by default, the options of quitting or trying again. Maybe I was afraid of hard work because I never was a quitter. The woe of being a determined, lazy teenager.

Forget deflowering

There's something painfully poetic about burning flowers, watching as the white petals darken to a crisp and evaporate into the night as if it was always an unadmired essence of nothing.

Maybe I find it so because I used to think I was like that white flower, subtle and quiet, as I hung on the low branches waiting for a stranger's quick glance in recognition that maybe it was a beautiful flower in existence. But burnt, the charred petals and limp sternum was something more recognizable to me in the mirror. Nobody sees burnt flowers as a conventional beauty, if at all, but as an unnatural occurrence mutilated in chemistry by a twisted God whose love for fire and destruction wrought a strange irony in what should have been an aromatic but useless piece of shit in nature.

This is not what I am because I don't want to be a flower anymore. They're fragile and pointless and dainty and conventional for the simple minded mongrels whose mindless admiration is as insulting as being plucked as a bud. I'm not a burnt flower or any force of vegetation, but I'm beginning to think that I am the aftermath of massive destruction: The ash, the smoke, the mild burn at the back of your nostrils. This is what I am as a girl, grown from the dirt of rejection and ray of pity.

Waiting

It's a strange thing to think that I've been waiting all this time for summer. I've been waiting and passively passing time until the fifteenth of May so that I could strip and run open-armed into the ocean under the scathing sunlight. I've been waiting for months and I've just another before I look back and realize that I'll only have two more weeks of my first year of college and I've done nothing progressive except take a few classes and hardly pass with grades that would get me no job and no accolade.

I've been waiting all this time for something I think will be great, but these months have been great and where was I to enjoy them but in a constant mental state of anticipation for the next best, unobtainable thing.