Junior year has officially come to an end and I noticed that I didn’t even say goodbye to anyone. Sure, we’ll all be back next year, but I’ve always bothered to hug all of my friends and wave goodbye to a few acquaintances every time a school year ended. I didn’t care less about this week unfortunately, although 11th grade was certainly much better than sophomore year. In fact, I loved first semester; I couldn’t have asked for better teachers and classmates. I was ecstatic to have my all-time favorite English teacher again, who inspired and encouraged me to be a better writer ever since I was a freshman. I was doing so well, maintaining a grade-point average of above 4.0 and writing “excellent” essays (as my English teacher put it).

Then, everything just dwindled in second semester. Terrible news broke out about my great English teacher having undergone a stroke. I, having the worst possible luck, got the worst ever teacher who replaced her. For some reason, I just stopped caring about school at that point. Everything dragged on, and it seemed as if I didn’t even know how to write a simple argument essay anymore. I received no encouragement or even criticism so I can have the chance to ameliorate my writing techniques. In contrast, I’ve gotten extremely harsh critiques from my previous teacher, which only encouraged me to enhance my skills. To some extent, I simply wanted to impress her because she knew everything, so when she told me that I was a good writer, then I probably was. In all of my high school career so far, she seemed like the only teacher who actually liked me, or who will at least remember me after a few years or so, but I digress. This other terrible teacher, however, made me feel as if I was an incompetent AP English taker who is unable to analyze these tedious nonfiction passages. I have never received a final grade this low on my strongest subject, or really the subject that only matters to me.

Anyway, junior year days grew duller every minute, and after AP exams, nothing mattered anymore. The worst part is that in the beginning of the year, I was extremely confident in getting a 5 on the English exam and perhaps pass the rest of the AP tests, but I have this dreadful feeling that I won’t even pass any of them. Taking everything into account, junior year was full of mixed emotions. It wasn’t too memorable but it wasn’t hell. I just hope that senior year will undoubtedly be the year to remember.

What I wish more than anything is to be an authentic artist. One who possesses a wild, extensive imagination, exquisite creativity, artistic passion, and a separate world that is far more enjoyable than my own. Not an insipid, unimaginative, idealistic artist like me. I do, in fact, dwell upon a separate realm I have invented for myself, hoping to escape from reality and step into a world of surrealism where I can encounter countless inspirations. Unfortunately, everything that my mind creates is a disappointment. Instead, I’m trapped in an obscure, melancholic place, devoid of color and expressiveness.

I admit that I possess at least a tinge of natural ability, for I was born into a family of artists, but what good is it to draw a picture that is quite stunning but meaningless? Something that isn’t from my own mind? The problem is that I draw what I see, not what I feel or think because I have no imagination. Skill is undoubtedly something that can be developed and perfected, but not creativity, and it’s frustrating as an “artist” that I am devoid of such a thing!

I wish I could be like modern artists of the 20th century who crafted art that reflected their feelings, even though they were harshly criticized for refusing to depict beauty like Renaissance artists did. Many of them splattered indistinct scribbles or painted mere geometrical shapes; such art weren’t quite impressive, but each signified something, and what made their art so great was that no one has ever done it before. Surely, they weren’t aesthetically beautiful, but you know what? I would much rather have original, innovative ideas and be able to transfer them onto canvas, no matter how repulsive or nonsensical they are to the eyes of the viewer. I want to be able to impulsively picture an image when someone asks me to interpret a song, dance, or any topic, into an artistic masterpiece that I can call my own. I just want to illustrate something I came up with; not based on pretty photo references, others’ works, or simply real objects. 

I wish I was a true artist.

snarkasticmoviegeek:

With books and bookstores going obsolete, it made me realize our posterity’s misfortune. Sure, it’s much easier for them to get their hands on a novel. With just a few clicks, you have yourself a new story in the palm of your hands. I see the appeal, but books will forever hold my heart.

I just finished reading The Great Gatsby last night/this morning, and I have this feeling that I got more emotional at the ending than what was intended. In the past days reading The Great Gatsby, I’ve familiarized myself with the characters and developed some sort of special bond with them, especially with Gatsby. His fate just brought me to tears, and Nick’s unwavering loyalty at the end broke my heart. A gust of emotions just blew me over, and just like Gatsby, I didn’t want the book to come to an end.

I went to sleep, clutching the book in my arms, hoping that it will stay with me because this book has become my friend. It has become a part of me, a voice in the back of my head. And while that sounds alarming, I find comfort in it that I have so much love for it.

This is how I feel in general about books. The book cover is a gate protecting the world inside. Unlock the gate, and a journey awaits you in the next hundred pages, two hundred, three hundred…. Lose yourself in the forest of words, filled with thrills, passion, terror, laughs, tears…. Holding a book in my arms is like holding a whole world, completely separate from the one I’m living in now but is vaguely familiar.

And to walk into a bookstore…. It’s so overwhelming to be surrounded by so many little worlds. Shelves and shelves, one after the other, stacked high overhead surround me to hold a myriad of portals.

Kindles, iPads, Nooks, and all the others are merely photographs. It’s all look and no touch. I can’t immerse myself in the feel of the paper. There are too many little worlds stuffed into one lifeless rectangle. I can’t get lost because I don’t even know where to enter.

It’s such a shame to think future generations would never experience that feeling of opening a brand new book and hear the spine crack ever so slightly and catch a whiff of that new book smell. It’s a pity to think they would never feel so small amidst towering bookshelves.

After opening that door, I can stay up all night. I let the words guide me and my imagination carry me until there’s no tomorrow.

But there always is. And when it comes, I just open the cover and step inside.

lolsofunny:

(Source: , via elliphantastic)