“Are my gifts not good enough?”
I live in a world that looks at people who have passions like my own and see pathetic amateurs with no hope of finding a job. I hate it. I can’t stand it, actually. To these people, unfortunately, it’s not enough for them, but fortunately, it’s enough for me.
I’ve seen my gifts have its societal perks. I'm beyond jazzed to have been nominated for an award in my university’s english department, to which I’m up for possibly some monetary scholarship. That’s pretty awesome. To be recognized for my work would be an incredible honor, by reward of financial gain or otherwise. Woefully, in what I hope to be a future career, my wage will always be determined by the gauge of my art. My essays. My work. Also, worst and best of all, it’s all subjective. It’s the most democratic of these facets of life. My voice will be received differently by everyone I’ll ever meet. It’s the most sublime thing ever. On both sides of the spectrum. An overwhelming fear and overwhelming joy.
Most days, on both sides of the spectrum as well, my emotions swing in no equilibrium. I can be filled with profound joy or sadness, changing in severity at every hour with no predictability. In this lifelong dilemma I am blessedly plagued with, I have found peace in my own words, and society can never take that from me. My words are my escape, powerful enough to quiet the chaos that runs rampant within the insulation of my thinker. Putting my thoughts into words on a page lifted weight. The “burden” I thought I was giving to this world could be legitimately thinned out by verbalizing my polarizing emotions. Give it a tummy tuck, you know?
I hope I can someday bring words to someone who needs them. Someone who may lack the access or even ability to put words to their overbearing thoughts. I LIVE for the Pixar-like wonder of evolving complexity to simplicity. I was talking with a mentor who I’m more honored to call one of my dearest friends about the impact of such Pixar gems like Soul and Inside Out. Not only the impact they had on us, but also the world. When I saw Inside Out with my family, the summer of 2015 that it was released, my 11-year-old brain was shifted in such a way that I could connect with my 13-year-old sister, my 42-year-old mother, and my 47-year-old father on a caliber that no other film has come close to. Interjection: I’m afraid my family members may be aghast at me sharing their bound-by-time ages, when in reality there are many days I feel the same age as my parents, whether that be from their perspectives or mine. We discussed this phenomenon of a film from the moment we stepped out of the theater, the car ride home to my grandparents’ house, and through the evening as we lounged in their pool. Though I lacked the more “poised” manner of my writing today, I would’ve gone OUT TO LUNCH writing about how affirmed I felt seeing such a modern display of the human condition. The main character Riley was almost exactly my age when I saw it. Not to play pick-me, but I was more of a target audience member than anyone in my family, yet that barrier was naught to what it brought out in my family’s rejoicing of this story.
This film taught me I could feel very different things simultaneously, and that IT! WAS! OKAY! I was allowed to dwell on my past, miss it dearly without shame, but also reflect on the duality of the joy and pain that it brought me. In the next couple years of my life (at this point in time), I decided to quit competitive dance to get more involved in my school district’s culture, trying out for cheer and getting involved in theatre and whatnot. Inside Out’s message didn’t leave me. I missed dancing more than anything. I had to say goodbye to the passion that I had followed for upwards of six years, and nothing ever really came close. My zeal for movement and rhythm was what I was always attracted to, no matter what I endeavored into, branching from cheer to theatre to sign language to writing.
I move within my words. I feel a rhythm as I write. I also legitimately ALWAYS need to have noise playing, by proxy of music or podcasts. I’m listening to songs from Haruki Murakami’s essay ‘Portrait in Jazz’ right now if you care to be curious. I’ll plug the link in, too, because I’m just that generous tonight. Dance was my fortress of solitude, my secret lair, my own private speakeasy. A home, if you will, and I have always been prone to get relentlessly homesick.
Wow. If I keep telling you more, I’m gonna have to ghost you for a bit so you’ll go back to thinking I’m mysterious and aloof. Eat this up, y’all, seriously.
Anyways, Inside Out!!! I was allowed to miss dance, but also be okay that it was over. I missed a lot of things, but didn’t miss a lot else. To spare my bellyaching, the typical body image issues were rampant and that’s about all I’ll share. This complication of my emotions continues to carry into my adulthood. Where I stand (sitting, rather, I’m in my dorm desk chair), I am still in a constant whirlwind that is my sensitive, anxiety-ridden, depressed brain that will continue to be a sensitive, anxiety-ridden, depressed brain. I can’t help my chemical imbalances or being the way that I am, and neither can you.
Back to my spectrum of the sublime. You can take this with exhilaration or horror. To me…I think it’s good. A simple word, good. It’s good to feel these things so heavily, because it reminds me that I’m alive, and I’m just so undeniably human.
I’ll make a separate thingy for Soul. Don’t you dare think I’ll neglect one of my favorite movies possibly ever. So…yeah. That’s a lot to unpack. Can’t wait to go back and pick through this thing with some “class” to filter out whatever the masses may view as hysteric mania. Thank you for being here, for feeling, and for being human.
MO
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