Enough for One Life

It's been a long ride through High School, with its ups and downs, twists and bends. Times when I was on top and times when I hit rock bottom. So, basically your average roller coaster, as long as it's a good one. If I had to equate my time at Lone Peak to a roller coaster I'd probably pick something along the lines of Winnie the Pooh. The one at Disneyland, where Pooh dreams of honey. 

Not that it wasn't eventful or exciting - it was definitely exciting to say the least. It just felt like Winnie the Pooh, a psychedelic, amusing track for me to relax on. Because, let's be honest - High School is a cake walk compared to the rest of our lives. No more relaxing for us. No, life is about to become a full-blown coaster that tries to knock your head out of your skull and force your lunch past your lips. So… something like: Winnie the Pooh does Meth, or something. Not that I'm planning on getting high, mind you. 

When I first signed up for this class, it was after Nelson stopped me in the hall with a boom box on his shoulder wearing gangster clothes. He urged me to take Creative Writing, which I couldn't resist. I'm a writer. Have been ever since seeing King Kong. I determined early in my life that I wanted to make film, and that writing a book would help me feed that addiction until I had the funds to make said blockbuster. 

This class wasn't at all what I expected it to be. When I first arrived, I thought it was going to follow along the same path as Creative Writing in Eighth grade. We were given daily prompts in horror, fantasy, sic-fi and romance genres and had to develop characters, plot, and story. I never once suspected that all we'd be doing this time around was writing poems. I'm not that good of a poet, as my blog can attest, but that isn't to say that I didn't enjoy this class. Sure, sometimes it felt like a sob-fest for people to cry in or a perpetual pep talk for people to be inspired by. I think it had a good mixture of everything. I could've done less with the religious mumbo-jumbo and the memoirs describing how much life sucked or rocked, though. Honestly, I enjoy the type of writing that employs none of that. The kind of writing that forgets about reality and travels beyond the norm - like fantasy or sic-fi. That's the rubric that I've fallen in love with. It's what first spurred my hand to create words on a page.

I guess I've always been a bit of an old soul. I don't relate easily to teenage behavior - like angst, addiction, or just plain stupidity, like the ones found in every single suicide. I cared and still care for none of it. People call me insensitive, impersonal, abrasive. And I can be at times. Really, I didn't relate because High School seemed to be everyone's life, where, for me, it was just another stepping stone. For me, life was found in my books, my family, my movies, my games, and anything else besides school. It was simply another ride to wait in line for and go on before jumping over to the next one.

Damn if it hasn't been fun.