I really wanted to write something today but I have zero inspiration. So, I though I’d show you a paper I wrote in a creative writing class I took at a local community college my junior year of high school. The object of the paper was to write about ourselves, however we saw fit. It seems fitting to post this now. Enjoy!
Passion From The Past
I remember those days. It was sunny and clouds appeared over head, but never threatened for rain. I was 4 years old. My dad wants to go for a walk. I never questioned it, because that’s what we did: go for walks. Living next door to the Garden of the Gods made it easy to wander, and that’s exactly what we did. We always started at the trail and continued up the red beaten path. He was quiet, but that’s how we were alike. Neither of us minded the silence, and with the wind passing through the trees and the gravel underneath our shoes, it was plenty loud for both of us. We always sat at the same spot. The rock was flattened and ran parallel to Pikes Peak. The sun would blaze vibrantly and warmed our backs against the bitter wind. My dad and I would sit and gaze at the mountain, ignorant to the cars driving by and the hikers flooding through. After so many adventures through The Garden, climbing became a habit. My dad would call me Billy goat and I would grin back at him, proud of the title I earned.
I trust he remembers those walks and I hope they were just as important to him as they were to me.
12 years later, I’m sitting in the back seat of a car examining my face in the review mirror. Something is different. I sit up and straighten my back so that I can only see the bottom half of my face. My round cheeks and full lips stare back at me. I slouch down so I can see my eyes. They’re still large, with my left eye placed higher on my face than the right, but nothing looks unusual. I adjust myself so I can see my whole face again. Something is different; something I cannot grasp nor clarify for my brain. I refocus my attention to the two girls in the front of the car. I eventually catch on when I hear the word “boys” spoken multiple times. I immediately zone out again, not wanting to put any effort into that topic. But, that topic has never really put any effort towards me, either. I try not to think too much about it, or else a minor panic attack ensues, and I believe everyone in the world is abandoning me. I close my eyes and gradually my fear and self- pity dwindles to the back of my brain.
My mood lightens when we reach the school, remembering what class I have next: French. This is the only class I look forward to in the day, eager to expand my fluency in the language. Once again, my mind wanders off as I remember my journey through Normandy, France the previous summer. I can still smell the sea salt floating in the air, making my skin clammy and soft. The town is bustling with families, making last minute stops before they go home. I have no intention of retreating to the hotel yet, and I continue my walk down to the beach. The tide has already risen, surrounding the town completely. I watch the sun disappear as it submerges under the horizon but I do not go back, not yet. I streets are mostly empty now, but the smell of fresh warm bread still seeps out of the shop doors, tempting passer-bys to make one more stop. Knowing I have to leave in the morning makes me walk at a miniscule pace, taking in everything I can before I return and neglect my curfew.
I view the world as a blank canvas. Just give me the chance and I will create my own piece of work to call my own. Opportunities are like the paint; what you do with it is what makes your creation come to life. You can close your eyes and see where the paint takes you, or you can plan out your next step. Similar to paint, regrets and mistakes are permanent. You cannot easer what you have done. You can only learn from it and make your mistake apart of your foundation for your next step in life. At the end of your life, your canvas is complete. You will have made mistakes, taken risks, and made great accomplishments. Every step you take will just be a part of the painting.
I want to live a bold life. I want to look back into my past and know I did everything I could. Margaret Mead once said, “I learned the value of hard work by working hard.” No one can appreciate the hard work people put forth if they themselves have never put effort into something. I want to live my life knowing I worked for everything so that I can value everything in return.