Stream of Consciousness

Avery It’s June 13, the ripe start of summer.  Two summers ago on this day, I was immersed in the whimsical and amazing world of Harry Potter at Universal Studios with my best friends, celebrating the fact that I was no longer a freaky freshman and that my greatest childhood fantasy was right before my eyes.  Last summer on this day, my family and I got dugout seats at a Dodger’s game, and I stuffed myself with French fries and cheesy hotdogs; my sister and I spend the majority of the game relentlessly taking selfies with our food – I don’t really know why. The common thread here is that my summers were eventful, action-packed, exciting! I was rewarded for my zealous efforts staying up past midnight studying and pursuit to achieve all As throughout the school year; I finally received a break. Except the thing is that now, the most eventful thing I’ve done so far is go to the beach with my friends for three hours – a big chunk of the time which I spent napping...

Christina  Naïvety and idealism. Idealism and naïvety. The words roll off my tongue because surely, my life has had its fair share of both. While the two words are seemingly synonymous at first glance, there is a subtle difference in connotation that vastly distinguishes these two deceptively analogous terms. Naïvety suggests gullibility while idealism expresses innocent, uncompromising hope. To be idealistic is bliss and to be naïve is condescending. My idealism clearly manifests itself in the way I perceive love, a tender, reciprocated affection that lasts forever. And more than anything, I love my family. Born and raised in America, thousands of miles away from my relatives in China, I’m not familiar with the company and proximity of a large family. Rather, I am familiar with the close, intimate bonds between my mom, my dad, and my younger sister. You could say that we’re a nuclear family: the type you admire on television, the type that you wish you had. On the othe...

Christina ***This is a random narrative that I wrote after feeling inspired by Camus’ existential book  The Stranger . “Tell me a story,” she whispered as a delicate puff of warm air gently grazed against my ear. I sighed. I was exasperated that her imagination was running rampant again while mine hardly ignited. She obviously yearned to hear whimsical stories woven from the entangled depths of my mind, but I was tired; I dare say, exhausted. And on second thought, my mind is not a labyrinth for her to run through simply because she demanded it. I firmly told her, “Another time.” She understood and slumped defeatedly by my side. Now, it was her turn to sigh. We stared silently beyond the horizon, admiring the majestic nature and the limitless horizon, yet a shared and unexpressed disappointment hung in the air. The vacation was uneventful to say the least since we had hoped for mild and pleasant weather to stroll down the coast and frolic in the waves, to grill on the...