The First of Many

7 January, 2011

I hate this time of year.
It's cold, there's no color except for the rush of blood to your cheeks as the wind blows, and everyone (well, not all but some) walks like penguins in the hopes of not falling.

I need windows, though. Even though it's cold outside and I can't physically bring myself to be outdoors, I still hold out for that first day when it's too warm for my scarf and coat. When I peel them off and let that initial warmth of spring, slightly hesitant but eager all the same, tickle my skin.

As I walk out to my car, I let myself become aware of the way my skin is bitten by the temperature, the crispness of the air, the feel of snow under my feet. I let out a heavy breath and see the cloud I make.

For some reason, ever since the year's started, I've let myself become aware of the oddest things in my life. I guess you could say they were things I never noticed before, but to me it seems like they are things I've noticed but never really took in. Not feeling it from all-around, not noticing how they made me feel.

And remember, it's always the things that most would find ordinary. Things I would even find to be "normal."

The way the streetlamp glows exhaustedly on the corner of the street where my grandparents live.
The scent of my beagle's feet. They smell like he did when he was a puppy.
Seeing Mom cook dinner in her two-pieced, button-up pajamas.
My dad rubbing lottery tickets on my head, saying I'm good luck.
The way I tell people "this is my dad's/mom's night (or weekend)," knowing that I won't say that next year.
Curling up on the sofa in sweats and a blanket.
Playing a piece of music you haven't seen in years. It's like meeting an old friend again.
The sleepy noises Seth makes when he's asleep, his head on my chest.
Randomly remembering New Orleans, especially on Christmas Day.
Realizing that this is my last semester of high school, as of today having 15 Mondays left, and feeling memories of the last three and a half years coming back to me.

I'm going to be writing this semester. I want to write this semester, anyway. I feel like I have a voice that deserves to be heard, just like anybody else in this school or in this world.

Last year, I wrote a lot of stream-of-consciousness kind of stuff. I had a lot to get out, but it seemed like I was stewing over the same old thing every time I would sit down to write. And I was - I just didn't know it, then.

But this year, that issue is gone. I made it go away. I'm starting this year anew. At first, when I didn't write hardly at all, I was afraid that meant I wrote only to sort through things in my life and not because I loved writing.

I've recently realized that is not true. I mean, I sat down here and wrote all of this, right? So I must still have some substance in my passion for words.
Besides, this semester is going to be about making memories and making a name for myself to go out with.

I can't even imagine what April and May are going to be like. They are going to be two blinks of an eye. Two proms, my last contest for Chamber Orchestra, the IDEA reunion, Mini-O, the orchestra banquet, the musical, graduation and all that'll go on during that week.

On New Year's Day not ten minutes after the ball dropped, Seth looked back at me and gave me this funny sort of look. "We GRADUATE this year," he said, like it was hard to believe.
And it is.

This is the start of the end, which is the start of the beginning.
I'm feelin' those eighteen years of my life, man. Really and truly.