cliched writing on adolescence or whatever

My adolescence is almost over. Seventeen years on this earth and the words that flood my silly little brain flow out on the page as my form of catharsis.

Clarice Lispector wrote in her novel Agua Viva, "I'm trying to seize the fourth dimension of this instant-now so fleeting that it's already gone because it's already become a new instant-now that's also already gone." Seventeen isn't old. The skin on my face is ripe with collagen. I don't know how to drive a car. But I can't avoid this inescapable feeling that whatever form I reside in, it won't be for long. I scoff at millennials but detest my generation. I can't wait to grow old yet I yearn to stay a teenage girl forever. No matter all of the philosophy I read, or searching for my soul, all I can pose are questions.

The real root of my heightened distress is the fear of future. Realism is not one of my stronger areas in life. Collage is an impending doom that is sure to wreck me even more than the melodramatic sobs that escape my throat as I ponder the hypotheticals. Being a functioning member of society? How dare someone ask me to do that. Why can't I as a woman exist and read my books and write my silly little musings. I believe that this idyllic state of life is something I will string along till I die. I could be nihilistic, but nihilism is the philosophy for privileged brats. I abhor it. Writing about getting old is the biggest cliche of all time. I have quite a lot to lament for a girl who’s brain isn’t fully developed yet.

Looking back at the instant-now of my adolescence it was one that was well lived. How can one know they are living life to the fullest whilst they are living it? How does our adolescence constitute the rest of our lives? After a while it probably all fizzles out and your memory plays in chucks of time. I can’t remember what I did on March 3rd in second grade, but I do remember a Christmas concert from 5th grade. As I got older, I began to remember elementary school as a conglomeration of time. I only look back and flashes of memory spark my brain like fireflies. It's like that feeling when you remember a truly dreadful snippet of life and you tense up.

I realize that this is the very beginning of my life and I'm being awfully too cynical. But hopefully I look back at these years and it would feel just like it does when you listen to a song you haven't in years and the words suddenly all flood back into your mind.

This was a particularly self indulgent but in hopes of being literary Sylvia Plath-like princess this is some writing double steeped in malaise for you. xoxox emi