Library

I can't remember the last time I was there, or the last time I could even fit it into my schedule. But today, the siren song of the books became too strong, and I went.

The surrounding ground is torn up, naked and exposed to the harsh cold and frost, but inside is welcoming. I find a computer, type in the title, find a call number, and begin my search. Soon, the beat of my muffled footsteps find the right pattern, and I fall into step, swooning under the weight of literature in the air, enticing and caressing.
The shelves tower with knowledge, the upcoming expansion promises even more, and I feel small and playful. I love the feeling of finding the right book, how something that just minutes before was simply a number on a screen is now tangible, filled with words and stories and emotion, solid in your hands.
I turn, having planned on a short visit, when I come face to face with Joyce Carol Oates. My fingers itch, and I feel guilty for never having read her, even when she has an entire shelf to herself. I browse slowly, savoring each title, tilting, bending, to read them all. The colors, the fonts, the pictures, styles. The worn hardcovers with torn dust covers. This is all lost today, on kindles, online, in monotonous copies of black and white, on video games and I-pods. I pluck one out, and pull it to my chest.
My search continues, by author, by subject, as if I'm starving and feed only off of words, until my arms are full. I walk through the mystery aisle, shivering slightly at the surrounding horror, locked away on pages, leaving me safe, unless I dare to pull one out.

As I scan the titles into the checkout, a father walks in behind me, and smiles as his young sons point to pictures on the walls, gaudy educational posters. "Who's that?" A curious voice asks with a pointing finger. The father responds, "That, my son, is George Washington, the first president of our United States." I have to suppress an urge to turn around and hug him, hug them all, for suddenly, there's hope this isn't all lost. There's hope in books, in family, in learning, in teaching.

I return home, and settle on a familiar spot on the couch. The television remains off, for I am far away, lost in the magic of Oates, Maguire, and Wallop.

Recognition

"We are teenage girls.When we go home...Our straightened hair goes up into messy buns.Our makeup has faded or smudged so we take it off.The fake smile vanishes into how we really feel.Our brand new shirt changes into our favorite old sweater. Our skinny jeans are traded for sweat pants or pajamas.And our Uggs are taken off to reveal our fuzzy socks.When we go home...You wouldn't recognize us."
My friend emailed me a link to this Facebook Group, and at first, I was confused, thinking she expected me to sympathize with it. Her, who hunts in consignment stores with me, who avoids hair straighteners, and would swear off makeup all together if it weren't for the allure of bright colors. Her, who, while skinny, tall, and gorgeous, has no problem in pajama pants, dungarees, sweatshirts. "Blog about this," she told me, "explain it."

It's funny, because even when they get home, they all look the same. In messy buns, no makeup, old sweaters, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks. I don't straighten my hair. I've come to love the mass of unruly curls. Makeup is limited, and I smile only when I really feel happy. Shopping means nothing, new clothes mean nothing. If my favorite old sweater is available, so it will be worn during the day. Skinny jeans are uncomfortable, Uggs are cruel. But in whatever I do, in whatever I wear, I'm always me.

I would be recognized at school, home, socializing, anywhere. Because I never hide who I am. The same can be said for you. Recognition is only possible if people know who you are. And people can only know who you are if you do. I pity the girls who don't get recognized. Who feel so pressured to cover up, just under the label of teenage girls, that nobody knows who they are.

To Those Without Responses

"I love the fact that you don't care what other people think. You are so talented but don't let it go to your head. You are so modest and kind and honestly there is no way I can sum up in 255 characters how much of an inspiration you are to me."

This has sat in my Formspring, unanswered and anonymous, for seven months and counting. Among others, heartfelt, incredible, loving posts, that I've never given responses. I'm selfish. Because if I keep them in my Formspring inbox, I get to see them every time I sign in. I'm sorry, to those who write, and never get responses. But please, know that it's because I keep your writing close to me.

Part of writing is being able to be read without looking for a response. You've put words together, words that could change lives. Words that have changed life. Like smiling at someone you don't know, or spreading OperationBeautiful notes, people underestimate the power of these words.

So thank you, those without responses. Thank you, all of you.

Flying

Bear in mind that I'm listening to "Tomorrow" from Annie as I write this.

"Love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die." - Moonstruck

I was wrong about this quote when I first saw this movie. I always thought it was hopeful. That love was fun and exciting, that Loretta and Ronnie would give in, and be together and happy and loving. I was wrong. Love does ruin everything. It does break your heart. And it does hurt, more then anything. But that's what we're here for.

We always feel better when we have someone who understands us, even when that understanding may come from a completely unexpected place. I asked a friend how he was, knowing his girlfriend had just left him. He said he felt alone. And in that one word, I knew I felt the same. Simple, hollow, loneliness. I found comfort in understanding. And we talked, about relationships, about what goes wrong, and the purpose of any of it. I told him I didn't think I've learned anything. After a moment's pause, he said, "Well, I realized that it's much more fun when you don't know what you're doing until the end."

And of course, he's right. I've made bad choices, I've liked the wrong people, I've taken chances. It's like flying. Even if you know you'll crash, it's better to fly, even once, then to never get off the ground. It's much more fun to take chances. We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. From this, we learn, we grow.

I can say honestly, I feel happy today. And I can say honestly, I'll be even happier tomorrow. And the next day. That doesn't mean I'll never look back, of course I will. But it means I'll learn from it, and love the time I spent flying, without knowing what I was doing. I loved, I crashed, I got hurt, and I learned. And that, is why we are here.