A Letter to Winter Break
Winter break has changed its meaning for me over the years. Something I look forward to is something I long to be over with as soon as I've captured it. Not for the reasons you must be thinking. I'm no bookworm. I'm average, A’s and B’s. I don't want it to be over so I can learn more. That's absolutely false.mI wish for the break to be over due to the immense guilt it has put upon my shoulders. I feel guilt for resting, for actually taking a BREAK. Not working on something doesnt feel right, it feels evil. I feel like a bag in which people keep putting more things into, knowing it at its capacity. Except, nobody is putting more things onto me…but me. Alas, fuck the generation of workers who have plagued the young with the notion that you should never stop working if you want to succeed. How unfair.
Time has caused the “art of doing nothing” to not feel like an art, but more of a punishment. Humans have created evil. The need to constantly be working, so youre not to fall behind, or be deemed lazy. Who has put this upon us. A pressure that causes the sturdiest bridges to break. The hell that was finals week has finally settled itself into winter break. It's an odd feeling to not constantly feel like I need to do more in terms of a class. Being stress free has become unfamiliar. Laying in bed, or lazing on my couch has felt as if I was committing a sin. I suppose I did take away something from my transcendentalism unit. However, this guilty feeling I cannot help but harbor has gotten me thinking about the generation I live in. the generation that constantly feels the need to one up another. That is part of the reasoning for my having this blog. No longer do I feel allowed to do stress free writing, I feel as though I must write. This blog must be updated so I can attend college. Then get a good job. Then settle down. Then have a winter break that lasts years. Except for the fact I'm on winter break now and desire the feeling of being busy with school work. How odd.
My friend Rachel has a poetry account. I wish to be as public as her and not to have a fear of backlash. I hope I will grow to be more alike to her. To not fear public opinion. I don't even have my boyfriend read this as I'm too embarrassed. Why? I'm not too sure. Anyway, that's not my point of this excerpt. Its that her poetry account is being posted to everyday. I see it as I scroll on instagram, ignoring this blog that I had begged my parents to buy the domain name for. I must write or i'm a waste. Or I'm no better than my ex junkie male cousin who sits around, and a name nobody dares to mention. Why do I not allow myself the chance to relax? The blog is not disappearing and I cannot help it if I feel uninspired. All that occurs in the world is wrong. Wrongs which do not inspire me, but only upset me. Injustices with unfit punishments. I wish I had no responsibilities and could spend all day doing as I please. Possibly shopping, or baking, or a simple walk. That would inspire me a lot. I would begin to notice the way the trees appear and the shapes their leaves hold, rather than the trees form as paper and pencil, and the the shape of my eraser. I suppose school does kill artists.
I have another fear that I harbor. Being homeless. Working hard to succeed has been drilled into my head from the second I had understood words. To not work hard is to receive the short end of the stick, and drown in the shallow end. Picture this. A summer day in New York city. Incredibly hot, but your hair is down, and you feel the breeze as you walk the city with your mother. You have scored yourself a spot in Vogue Summer school. Life is enjoyable. Relaxing but also working incredibly hard, a perfect balance. As you go on this walk, and traverse your way across the endless streets you spot a man, his car, and a plethora of paintings. Your mother begins to speak. She says words that you will never forget. She begins to speak of how her father didn't want her to pursue her current career in art, as she will one day be a “starving artist” and regret it all. Then the clouds begin to distort, and the sidewalk changes its form into a black hole. How quickly those words changed my mood. It's my new form of motivation despite the fact I wish it wasn't. I do not want to live penny to penny. I must work hard to grow above that. However, many hard workers also live penny to penny. Whose fault is it really? The notion that money is success, and the only way to achieve money is to be a hard worker, or the fucked world? Both? I'm unsure. I know her father is right in some aspects, but my mother is more than successful. Either way, the scene of New York no longer felt like the dream it once was.
This is my first passionate writing piece in a while. I'm beyond glad.
