crayons

When I was 6 I was 23 and when I was 10 I was 15.

And I may have held three crayons in each hand, but all I was drawing was the future castle I’d call home and the good looking car I’d drive and better looking boy I’d date when I turned 16.

I dreamed of future birthdays and straight hair and finally meeting 10 o’ clock. And now the only thing I regret more than not giving my sixth grade crush a valentine letter is wasting all of that time

Wishing

Dreaming

Hoping

Because

I’d rather be stressed about which recess game I should play than which version of me I should present to which version of you.

Or

Which pair of knee high socks to wear than how many words I can get in before everyone becomes disinterested.

But I think that if 60% of the world knew that a class full of 17 and 18-year-olds were writing about wanting to be younger we’d be the new owner of the most-eye-rolls-received Guinness World Record.

So instead of envying the past, I’m going to learn from it. Because I do not, should not, will not look back at high school and regret all the time I spent wishing to be young

Because I can touch my toes

And stay out late

And cry whenever I want to

And I’m guessing in twenty years those things will start to look and feel a lot like crayons and I’m going to want them back too.

So take your crayons and draw a picture for the fridge if that’s what you want to do, but don’t forget to spend time driving to weird places and staying up late and enjoying the fact that girls and boys finally eat on the same side of the lunch room.

F. Sharpe

the deep end

For the longest time I've been trying to form my thoughts into a cohesive post, but I suppose that would denote that I live a cohesive life and then I’d be among the Don Corleones of the blog world. 

I have 27 fears, all of which could probably be solved by Rational Thinking. 

But I’m a 17-year-old girl and Rational Thinking must hate the color of my hair or something. 
Because I haven’t seen him in a while. 

The fact that college is in the next 7 months is to blame for 80% of the tears that I’ve reluctantly let slip by in the last year or so. But it’s also owner of 50% of the smiles and I’m still trying to figure out which is more powerful.

 I love to verb nouns; eat food, sing music, play sports, hike mountains. I’m a doer. A go getter. 

I’m a list-making-goal-setting phenom. And when goal-setting-list-making doesn’t work I really stress out.

Because it always works 

And I guess that I worry that if you ever measured the depth of everyone’s words, mine would be sitting in the shallow end of the pool just wishing they had the experience, courage, vigor to  walk past the point where feet can touch. 

But that might be ok because I feel like people care more these days about how many likes you get or your dress size than any measurement regarding depth of character. 

Then again I suppose I don’t necessarily shine in those areas either. 

I have a lot of main stream loves (rain, socks, boys)

And some not so main stream ones too (math) 

  

I run everywhere I go because time is inexpressibly valuable to me and I think that if there were diamonds in your path 

you would run after those too. 

F. Sharpe