These transient moments
When I’m read to pick up a pen,
Quickly dismissed by the prospect of shame I will feel for my pen’s product.
I will never impress anyone.
And still, I daydream sometimes that I will receive an award, something heavy and substantial. Not like a certificate, but like a trophy or a metal. A physical award to validate my abstract, shaky feelings of self-worth.
Today, still in my pajamas, I watched nine episodes of What Not to Wear. The reality show where frumpy soccer moms get their wardrobes transformed by fashion gurus, and at the end they come out flushed and beaming, their old selves transformed into better selves. Several months ago, I watched Mira, the quiet girl from fifth period, practice her dance steps on an empty stage. She wasn’t that good then, but tonight I saw her in the school musical with the biggest smile, and afterward she was hugged by her boyfriend, the boy I secretly like.
But once in biology class we learned that the majority of the brain’s neurons are used up by the time you are eighteen. Everything you want to learn becomes so much harder. So, when I put my hands through my hair to my scalp, I think I can feel my brain deteriorating. When I put my hands on my face I can feel under the acne and fat the ridges of wrinkles.
Two weeks ago, on my eighteenth birthday, my grandmother kissed me on the cheek. She tells me I’m talented, beautiful. So full of potential. I don’t believe her.