SimplyEmy.

On Saturday I went to a memorial service in Oregon for a dear family friend who passed away after a four-year battle with cancer. It was a rude awakening of many sorts, but that loss of innocence was not of death, but in seeing how cold people can be. The most heartbreaking piece of thought that lingered all throughout the three hour drive home was I don’t think she died because of cancer. She died because no one gave her a reason to stay.

As I paced the church's porch with my restless baby sister in my arms, it occurred to me that the sun was shining down on that church the same way as it had before, and as it will for many days to come. The branches broke its rays, forming shadows that danced around as the August breeze swayed about. Nothing had changed; and yet, I knew that I would leave Oregon a different person.

"It'll be a day like this one when the world caves in." - Switchfoot, The Blues

Rest in peace Tanya. You will be remembered in our hearts with love.

"When I was little I used to believe in love just like I did in magic. Now, I’ll sooner believe in magic before I believe in love again. " -Aiden Milton manuscript.

For those of you interested in what's going on in my rather boring life... this post goes out to you.

I have developed an obsession with learning Spanish words. I blame Amy really. She bet that I wouldn't take Spanish seriously, and I don't like to lose. That following weekend I went to Barnes & Noble and bought myself the biggest Spanish/English dictionary there, a nice addition to the phrasebook my parents gave me my freshman year. I have narrowed down the two-thousand something songs on my iPod to two-hundred, 58 of those are in Spanish. I set wordreference.com as one of my homepages, and I'm reliving my childhood through watching kid shows in Spanish. Oh- and the two-hundred something DVDs collecting dust downstairs, yeah I've been going through those to see if they have Spanish subtitles.

Can you say nerd? Haha, not only can I say it, I can spell it too.

Right. I'm done. I have a Spanish essay rought draft, a Math IA to revise, a presentation on James Joyce's Dubliner's tomorrow, and a lap report for IB Bio to do. Yay me.

While I was playing the piano today, I stumbled upon a hypothesis so satisfying, I am determined to carry out the experiment, and of course, prove it correct.

I don't like rules. I don't like doing what I'm told. And I'm not talking about school or society rules... that's entirely different from this context. I am talking about barriers that each of us set for our own selves. These barriers are as simple as telling ourselves we are incapable of achieving something, but as complex as trying to follow through for all the wrong reasons.

I don't like my rules.

In eighth grade I struggled with math and created my first rule: Math is not something I can excel in. In ninth grade I had to move and adjust to a semi-new place. I made another rule: I will never fit in. Sophomore year when I was turned down to play for YMCA Blaze I made yet another rule: I am not worth a chance. And this year? I find myself in the process of making another one: I don't belong among these IB people.

But today, I am breaking these rules. And I've been breaking them all along if I am to be honest.

Freshman year I received a certificate in achievement from my math teacher. I am now realizing that people know who I am for all the right reasons (I don't party with the best of them... if you know what I mean). Sophomore year I received the "Most Inspirational" and "Coach's Award" from my school volleyball team. I also was given a chance to prove myself on another club team, shortly after being turned down by Blaze. And today I realized I am the only one questioning whether or not I belong in IB. For whatever reason my teachers, principal, and IB coordinators have no doubt that I'm capable of staying in the program. Maybe I'll listen to them just this once.

I am a “writer”, and at the moment I am doing what every creative writing manual says not to do. I am writing about my frustration with my writer’s block (which really is just an excuse for the lack of an imagination or motivation to actually sit my butt down and write some worthwhile piece of manuscript). If you’re an aspiring author, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. This bites.

If I had the creative genius and artistic flair at this particular moment, I would risk it, whatever “it” is, and I would begin writing about all important “stuff”. And if I was feeling empowered, perhaps I’d begin an article on the oppressions of every day teenagedom. (See that? I made up a word!)

Right. It’s 1:36 am.  I’m not hyped up on coffee and I have school tomorrow. I should be more responsible than this. Bedtime means bedtime.

But no, I’m feeling a little bit rebellious right now. That’s right, not empowered, but rebellious. Though one can say it’s rather pathetic that my rebellion is nothing more than writing up a blog. In fact, I think if I were anyone else’s daughter my parents would be rather proud of my passion for wasting people’s precious time while I waste my own. See, now that’s what you call hitting two birds with one stone.

So now on to a more serious discussion: What is the inspiration and intention behind writing my first novel? I’d be lying if I told you A) I didn’t want to be famous, because no matter what they say I think it’d be pretty cool, B) that my parents not believing in me has nothing to do with this obsession I have to one day prove them wrong, and C) that I wouldn’t feel some self-gratification when I finally print the very last page to my manuscript.

And I admit those are very selfish points. But like people have many layers to their personalities, so do my intentions behind trying to write this manuscript. You see, if what I have to say inspires at least one person to really be the best person that they can be (right, not cheesy at all, eh?) then I know I wrote something that doesn’t waste people’s time. I want to break stereotypes that generations before me have formed about my generation.

And to me, if all a person gets from reading my yet-to-be-written novel is “Woah, never thought of it that way!” or “Hey! That’s exactly what I was wondering!” then Aiden Milton would have served its purpose.

Well it’s 2:00 am. I am done with my useless rambling and am off to read random articles on the internet to pass time. Why am I doing this? I have no idea. Go figure.

I don't get scared when watching scary movies. I find them funny. The Exorcist, Skeleton Key, Final Destination, Candyman, The Haunting, SAW, Pulse, The Hills Have Eyes... none of them scary. Yet, whenever I try to research something like encounters with the paranormal, I always get an eerie feeling. It's almost as if I'm doing something I shouldn't. To believe that there are haunted houses and that people out there really believe in witchcraft, I thought all of that was just in movies and books. Do things like these actually exist? Or are they just our imaginations getting the best of us?

I watched the movie Skeleton Key last night. It made witchcraft seem so real, like as if people are truly capable of doing this stuff. I asked my mom about it and she didn't hesitate in saying that she did believe it, as she once saw a woman change herself from being young, to old, and so forth, right before her eyes. My mom warned me not to get too interested in this subject, as she claims anything to do with astrology, fortune telling, and magic is from the devil.

But I want to know.

I'm not interested in learning how to do any of this stuff. I just want to know if it exists. Astral projection, hypnotism, witchcraft, voodoo, hoodoo, ghosts, demons, haunted houses, entities... are any of these real?

I hate it when teachers think they know what's best for you. True, there are several teachers on campus whose opinion I do highly consider... but they know me and have at least some clue as to what I'm capable of. When people who barely know my name start telling me I shouldn't waste my potential and how I should welcome a challenge... that makes me raise an eyebrow. I'm honored that people think highly of my intelligence. And though I do enjoy a challenge, I'm honest enough with myself to know my limits.

The IB program is wonderful. The teachers are excellent educators and the students are serious about learning the subject matter. But it's not for me, or at least not all of it.

Me? I don't care enough about all these subjects. I want to study literature and take a few creative writing classes. I want to have more time to learn Spanish rather than just memorize material for a test. I want to take a class that is completely irrelevant, but fascinates me. I want to learn how to write a screenplay, design clothing & jewelry, cook a few gourmet meals, and edit videos.

I have a clear understanding of what I want. And yes, maybe I do have potential to succeed at anything I set my mind to, but that doesn't mean it's worth it to me. Years after high school is done and over with, the IB Diploma will become just another paper. I am in no way claiming that this isn't a wonderful and challenging achievement, but I want to learn for myself and not to meet some requirements.

There is so much emphasis on how great the IB program is. Yet, no one ever admits that it has its flaws.

I used to be the girl who would stand up for the underdog. I used to be the girl who would say nothing behind someone’s back that I didn’t have the courage to say to their face. I used to be the girl who wouldn’t let anyone or anything intimidate me. I didn’t care what people thought of me. I didn’t need their approval. I used to be the girl that is now only a memory of who I used to be.

This girl was honest. She gave respect to those who earned it and took it away from those who didn’t. She didn’t need a label or a clique to define her place in the world, a world so small it would cease to exist in the following years. This girl knew who she was. I used to be the girl that I now only dream of becoming again.

I see a reflection. It isn’t mine. I choose to see what I like; I fail to see the truth, the ugliness that has grown like ivy. I take care to look my best. I put on a face. I hope the world tolerates me. I’m afraid to wonder how it’d feel if they didn’t.

I sit. I look around the room; I hear taunting whispers. It isn’t me. They like me. They like my face, the one I put on every morning before I walk into their world. The girl next to me forgot they required a face. Instead she speaks. I don’t see her face, I hear her voice. I don’t see her eyes, but I feel her truth. I know she speaks the truth.

They laugh. My lips don’t move. I wore a face, I tell myself. The laughing does not stop. She turns to face me. I see the girl I used to be. She stands and walks away. I do not stop her. I do not stop myself from becoming just another face.

There were several thoughts I've been having in the past couple of days. My folks and I went hiking the other day. I wandered off and climbed up my way up to a waterfall. It was breathtaking. As I stared down from up above it ocurred to me how fragile the human body is. One faulty rock and I could have been sent flying downwards. So I sat there at the edge, taking in the scenery, and began wondering if indeed something were to happen to me, what would I be leaving behind? What impact would I have made on the world and the people around me?

So I ran. I wanted to prove to myself that there was so much more. I didn't want to sit and wonder. I wanted to know. I wanted to seek. I wanted to risk.

Monday I sat in my English class. This one class is the biggest reason why I look forward to school. Our teacher was explaining this allegory written ages ago titled "Everyman." I won't go into much detail, but the point was that each of us goes through this journey called life and our destination is death. On this journey we invite our friends, kindred, five senses, and so forth. The only thing that we can't bring along are good deeds. Even when we die our good deeds are remembered, and these memories can not die.

I am not afraid of death. I thought I was, but I'm not. Death happens regardless of my consent. But I've finally realized what it is that I am afraid of. I fear what happens next. Is there a Heaven? Is there a Hell? Or will it be exactly like before I was even born-- will I just cease to exist along with my mind and soul? Will I remember anything? Will anything matter?