Driving.

The wind slashes at her car as she drives through the night, barely making yellow lights, flying towards nowhere. There is no one in the passenger seat; her only company is the voice on the radio. She steps on the gas and speeds away under the delusional idea that the faster she goes, the quicker she can catch up to the girl she used to be.

Of Mice And Men.

I think I've been living my life wrong. See, I have this crazy imagination -- I let my dreams run wild, get caught up in the beauty of how infinite the possibilities of my future are, then crash into a wall the second the tiniest flicker of doubt enters my mind. Not the doubt that I may not succeed -- the doubt that I may be wasting my time going after something I don't want. It's not that I'm fickle -- just curious. Open minded. Eager to live my life, but confused about how I'm supposed to be living it. I know what advice any sensible person would give me: enjoy your life and stop worrying so much. You're still young, you have plenty of time to figure out what you want and who you are. But what if I make a mistake? What if I go down a one way road that leads to a life that I could never be proud of? I know I'm being dramatic. I know that the future can only be planned up to a certain extent, and that even "the best laid plans...often go astray." But we only have one chance to live, and I guess I'm scared that I won't get it right. I can only hope that my tendency to dream too much will one day land me where I'm meant to be.

Hope.

Tell me, what is hope? One of my favorite quotes has always been Emily Dickinson's "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul." In my eyes, hope was that shining beacon, that glimmering North Star that would sparkle unwaveringly as the lost traveler's guide. But yesterday, someone said something that shattered this beautiful image: "Hope is for people who don't know what they're doing." And as much as I didn't want to believe it, he was right. People only resort to hope when they feel like they are not in control of their own futures anymore. But how can the one thing that keeps people from giving up also be the proof that one has given up?

Graduation.

I've been meaning to write the inevitable end-of-the-year graduation post for a long time, but I kept putting it off. I guess a silly part of me thought that if I never wrote it, we'd never really graduate.

This past Sunday, I attended Maggie, Sherry, and Melissa's senior recital at the Unitarian Society - my old preschool. As I walked up the steps, my mind flashed back to the picture of Tim and me as little kids, holding hands while prancing down these very steps. Staring out at the playground, the vague, blurry scene slowly came into focus as my eyes traced the contours of the wooden play sets, restoring the memories that the past twelve years had pushed to the back of my mind. As I reached the door, I smiled to myself when I remembered how I bawled my eyes out and refused to walk through that same door on my first day of preschool.

Yesterday, I went on an interesting little adventure - after Tamarack with Greg and Victor, lunch at Stewart's, playing ping-pong at a stranger's house, chilling in Amalan's sister's room, and getting water balloon-ed in Jesse's backyard...we somehow ended up having a little picnic (if that's what you call four people eating sushi in a playground) at Lawrence Brook School. The slides which were once blue were now an ugly shade of green, the huge ten-tire swing was no longer in existence, the awesome zip-lines were no where to be seen, the metal poles were replaced by bright red poles, and a stupid tree stood in the place where I used to jump off swings. But the mulch on the ground still smelled the same, the bull dog face was still there, and the kids on the playground were playing tag just as happily as I once did.

Today, I woke up and decided that I was going to be productive. I went to the high school and returned the track uniform that had been sitting in my closet for months and picked up the scholarship that I got at the sports banquet. When I came home, I cleaned my room and registered for the classes I'd be taking next fall. I then wrote a thank you letter to the donor of the scholarship and mailed it off, along with an AP assessment form for Carnegie Mellon. And then I decided that I was finally going to log onto blogspot and write the post I've been meaning to write for so long.

In the last three days, I managed to set foot on my preschool, my elementary school, and my high school. I did a lot in these three days, but they seemed to go by really fast. In the blink of an eye, we'll be getting our diplomas. And just like I once cried because I didn't want to start preschool, I will be crying again on graduation - but this time it'll be happy tears.

Spontaneity.

For someone who seems to like planning things out so much, I'm awfully attracted to the element of surprise. For some reason, I can't stand re-reading books or re-watching movies, even if I really enjoy them the first time around. However exciting, suspenseful, or action-packed the plot is, always knowing what's going to happen next decimates my interest. It's not that I think my life is boring or that I don't like having some consistency, but half of the time (such as now), I feel like I'm just sitting around waiting for something exciting to happen. The problem is, this wait is getting kind of long and I'm beginning to lose my patience.

Shh.

I think it's ironic that the sharing of secrets can bring people together but the revealing of secrets will tear them apart. I used to think that it was stupid whenever we played truth or dare at sleepovers because no one ever did the dares that were actually good, and as for truths, I never really had any secrets. It seems things have changed in the past few years.

Dependence.

I'm not a misanthrope or the type who prefers solitude to company; I like being with people. In fact, I thrive off social contact. Without my friends, I am not only nobody but I am nothing. So it might sound a little strange when I say that I hate depending on others. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for cooperation; I work well in groups and I get along with pretty much everyone. I like being the person other people can rely on, but I absolutely despise being on the opposite end of this dependence thing. It's not that my trust in others has ever been abused or that I find myself being disappointed very often. I hold all my friends in a very high regard and I know that I can count on them in almost every situation. But I don't know...there's just this feeling I have. A craving for independence, if you will. I guess it's just that some people will come and go in your life. At some point you'll lose a friend; heck, I've already drifted from so many once-close friends over the past few years. Maybe I'm just afraid to invest too much of myself into others because when they leave - or when I leave - I don't know how much of myself will never be returned. It's safer not to depend on others. But then again...maybe it's worth the risk. Maybe that's what friendships are all about. I should have more faith in people...I'm just being stubborn.