Stream of Consciousness

Christina One moment I am, And the next, I’m not. So who am I, if not just a product of my thought. Engrossed in this reverie, Consumed by a new desire. I’ll stop at nothing, No thoughts to retire. Yet this persistent nagging, it tugs at my mind. “Go away,” I exclaim, I’ll do anything; I’ll leave it all behind. So there, I quit, Submissive to anguish. Forever conflicted, My flame is extinguished. Now, I’m defeated, Yet another nagging persists. “Keep trying,” it says. “All the more reason to exist.” Despite the obstacles, All the hurdles that test and quiz, Nothing ever comes easy, For reality never is. This poem is the summation of a mental battle, replete with eagerness, stagnation, and persistence, and it details a process that regularly plagues my mind. Rather than traveling forward at a constant pace, I feel a jolting sensation, as if my feet are indecisively switching between the gas pedal and the brakes. Always forward, yet in intervals of rapid...

Christina Frustration. Irritation. Exhilaration. (And I admit maybe a little delirium at the end.) I couldn’t quantify it. I certainly couldn’t qualify it. So instead, I submerged myself in the tumultuous emotions that mercilessly hurdled at me. In the height of the moment, tears threatened to run down my cheeks and an unabashed scream teetered precariously at the verge of my mouth. “Deep breath,” I mentally reminded myself for the five hundred thousandth time, muttering a brief prayer under my breath instead. “Please Lord, let this physics roller coaster project work. We’ve been working on it for over twenty hours now, and I could really use a miracle right now. Amen.” And I know... I know . It’s silly: both the act of praying in a secular moment like this and the trivial content of my prayer. I guess that’s why my prayer didn’t come to fruition in the end, and so the struggle continued. I devised a plan; albeit, a cheesy one to uplift our dejected spirits. We would say a compliment e...

Avery Over the four day weekend, I got to spend my time at Hume Lake Winter Camp with  325 other high schoolers and 40 leaders. It was eye-opening and beautiful, but during the 6-hour bus ride home, I wondered what aspect from Hume I would choose to write about. It took me time — I could write about the transformative powers of nature, the way friendships can be developed so deeply in so little time, how fun a little independence is, and the like. But I realized something minute, yet important, during my trip, which I feel speaks to me most. During summer camp in August, I spent nearly a week in the presence of God, being immensely transformed and convicted at the same time; I was baptized soon after and tried reading the word of God daily, but this drive soon fizzled out.  I wrote at winter camp that “I don’t feel overwhelmingly moved by anything” like I did during summer camp, but that’s okay. I felt “tiny stirrings in my heart,” which I can be more impor...

Christina Standing on the precipice, I gaze down. Expecting to see a chasm of darkness, representing my uncertainty and hesitation in how to proceed, just as I have seen in the past, instead, I am met with an entirely different view. Gazing back at me, with equal fervor, is a familiar set of eyes, not quite of a stranger yet not quite my own: charcoal in color, soft with compassion yet hardened by time and experience. These eyes are those of a future self, and indeed, I am met with my own reflection. These eyes, apertures into the soul, radiate confidence, maturity, and knowledge that cast a long shadow over the confusion, naivety, and ignorance that I exude now as a seventeen-year-old. While one screams satisfaction and belonging, the other struggles to find her place and purpose in the world. The difference separating the two stages of life is massive, vastly beyond the hope of reconciliation, yet somehow, they are one; somehow, they are mine. It seems that time is the great ...

Avery                   How do I write something about the new year, something about personal reflection, while also making it something I want to share? Sometimes it’s best to leave things a bit ambiguous. I felt inspired by the concept of Gauguin’s “Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?” so I’ll see where that takes me.               Who am I? Where am I going? What am I doing? I don’t know. I am me, though I’m not sure who that is. I am going somewhere, though I’m not sure where that is. I am doing something, though I’m not sure what that is. I am me, always changing, always the same. Always questioning stereotypes, futures, and appearance. Always loving words, art, music, fashion, movies, photos, creatures, God, nature. I am going somewhere, always somewhere new, always coming home. Is it literal? ...

Avery A drip on the window sill, again, again. The sky’s colorful components cast away, a medley of silent hues, no blue, remain. It is fertile out there, soil darkened, leaves enriched. Each dry, despairing, desolate plant, gets a chance of revival, rejuvenation, rebirth. The pouring is unpredictable, but it happens. When will we learn the same is true for us? The seasons of dryness are fleeting, stagnancy will pave way to droplets, growth.

Ruth, posted by Avery I recently had the opportunity to meet with Holocaust survivors, and not only was it very amazing to hear their stories, but it was also amazing that the woman I spoke to, Ruth, allowed me to take a photo of one of her poems. She wrote it about 40 years after going into hiding. She was around nine when she went into hiding for two years, and she vividly remembers her inability to make sound, to read, to speak, and so on. While Ruth made it out safely and was able to study in the United States, many of her friends and neighbors could not. Through poems like this, her experience will live on. -Avery July 11, 1986 The Chair The room is small, in the attic, under a flat roof. Two tiny windows, in the slanted side, show pattches of sky. The chair, made of wood, straight back, uncomfortable. Seated on it is a child. From early morning till dark she sits. Does not move for fear to make a noise. Hands,  mostly idle,...

Christina It seemed like a relatively easy task at first, one that I could manage. As co-president, it was my responsibility to design a t-shirt for our class to enhance team unity and spirit in Academic Decathlon, and I only had one restriction: to keep the budget low. But soon, I realized that this task wasn’t going to be a breeze after all. Academic Decathlon didn’t even have a logo or a design that I could simply plaster on, so instead, I labored for hours, researching design ideas, sketching it out, tracing the image’s outline, and finally obtaining approval. And to make matters even more complicated, when I shared my final design with my classmates to hear their feedback, I expected praise and approval, but reality provided a stark contrast. While they prefaced their feedback with “It looks great” or “No offense” or “Just an idea,” I knew that what followed would be harsh and critical regardless of their futile attempts to soften the blow. “I wish that we could put a different im...

Avery I don’t really like to drive with other people anymore. It transitioned quickly; in March (though I had my license for 9 months), I still hadn’t driven alone, but now, moments when I am alone in my car are some of the tiny highlights of my day, all because of music.  Some people enjoy news stations, podcasts, or the silence, but I cannot recall a time when I wasn’t listening to music in the car. I’ve been on Spotify since 2015 and I have 107 playlists, which I never thought of as a lot until I saw how much fewer my friends have. This is not a mark of musical superiority or anything, but I guess the reason why I have such an abundant amount is because I make each playlist based on a different mood, a different movie, or a different aesthetic. And they can get really specific: “Cry Baby,” which is full of bands like Arctic Monkeys, the Neighbourhood, Cage the Elephant… essentially modern rock bands that make me feel cool, which I am not. Currently this, along with...

Christina Hey Mar! Ever since the beginning, we’ve been best friends (and during our occasional fights, worst of enemies), yet regardless, we’ve been destined to be sisters. I know that I’ll be going to college in less than a year, and you’re probably secretly excited to move into my room and to sell my entire wardrobe, but to be perfectly honest, I’ll probably miss you the most. I still remember the days when we were just toddlers, still living in Georgia. You were so scared of blowing out the candles on your birthday cake that you ended up crying, so I had to blow them out for you. I guess I got two birthday wishes that year. Or the time when we were sitting on our leather couch and you fell from your upright position onto your side. Your pacifier dropped onto the floor, so I bent down, picked it up, blew on it real hard, and stuck it back into your mouth. You never noticed that it was missing. Or the time when we pretended to be videographers with that tiny, old iPhone 3. ...