The human death dance(film festival)

Here is the video that me, Thom Sonny Green, Buggy, and Cloudwatcher put together!
 Special thanks to Colby Barton for slamming for us.

Paint your culture

This screams reminders. 


Katy, you're in charge of your life.
Katy, don't let him define you. Don't give him what his brain yearns for.
Katy, don't forget to soak your hands in paint. 
Katy, let the wild horses of your heart run free, dragging all the yucky with them. Leave the gate open. Leave it. Don't let it slam closed by the smallest winds. 
Katy, don't forget to write...and write...and write.
Katy, wash the black paint out of your color palette. You don't need any more black for your masterpiece, no matter what your siblings say.
Writer, don't let math lock you up in your brain.
Be the change. 
Writer, don't let society numb you. Add some color to this world.
Create your spunk. Only you can define who you are. 
Katy, choose your reaction.

Take control of your life. Paint your culture. And freaking create your future, McClain.

Who knew that I'd get all the answers with just a few words and a sharpie? 

Dear listening ear

Dear listening ear, 

 People say that soft and subtleness is beautiful in a woman. but to me it has always been my fear; because this world has never been fond of soft things, and its never had the eye for subtleness. 

it's never had the eye for me. 

my biggest fear has always been that no one would ever see me. that no one would see when I was trying to share a laugh with someone, that no one would pick up on when I was trying to express myself, or that no one would see when i just wanted to feel loved. making me feel that my message didn't matter. that i didn't matter.
 And like you've probably guessed, this class has been one of the those painful things. From day 1, I decided that my fears would probably be that I would blend in. That my blog would be "one of those blogs". That my heart would be, oh you know, "one of those hearts". So I detached myself from my self. 
 If I didn't get any comments, then it was Ricochet's fault, not mine.
 If my writing lacked confidence, then I could say it wasn't me. 
If anyone had to be invisible, please let it be her. Not me.
For most of this class, I created Ricochet. I made her the person that I feared I was....And I never even knew her. And now I have to let her go. 
 Most of the "heart" you saw on here was hers. It was the kind that is half muscle and blood, half grinning-and-bearing-it. It was Ricochet's. Because I condemned her to that. I could've made her amazing, but I didn't. 
 It wasn't until around the time when we talked about fear in class and we wrote down everything we didn't want, that I realized Ricochet Greyson was everything that was spilled on my paper.
And that was when we became one. That was when I made her visible. It was there that I created her with experiences around the campfire, made a map of our heart, or an album of my life. That was when I decided that I loved Ricochet Greyson. 
 It was a short bout, a great last ride together. I could've made her amazing, but instead I chose to make her a imperfect. My masterpiece. 
And now here I am trying to write her away. 
But I don't think I can do it. 
 Before that time she would've had you believe that she was depressed, but still remarkably pushing through. She would have you believe that she had all of the confidence and hope in the world. 
 But now she would have you believe that I am alive and that I know I am different even though my subtle self makes it hard to see. She would try to make you see that I have had my share of crisis and heartbreak. I may be awkward or average, or that person that always makes babies cry. I may be that quiet or "really nice" girl in B6, but if Ricochet had the chance to show you she'd tell you that I have an insanely feisty opinion and I am definitely not who I appear to be. I may not be sassy or I may not be drop dead gorgeous but if Ricochet really knew herself, you'd know that it doesn't matter. 
 Anywho. Maybe this hasn't been super clear, but I hope that these 
past few weeks you've been able to see her heart for what it really is. I may have a blog that a lot of people see, but not very many people read, or in other words, you may see me around a lot, but not truly "see" me. But Ricochet Greyson would have you believe that she is okay with that. She would have you believe that she doesn't need that to feel loved or understood any more. Anyways, thanks for listening. 
              
             This is me checking out from Ricochet Greyson,

    Yours truly, 
               Katy(freaking)McClain




                                     

album title: The Iceberg Analogy

The Iceburg Analogy
Album description: a chance to lower the water a bit.
Description of the tracks: 

Track 1, (published Jan. 30, 1999)
Here marks my 1st year in life. Everything is astonishing and even though I experienced so much to get to this point, I still couldn't blow out that one candle. I didn't mind.

Track 2, (published Jan. 30, 2000)
Two candles are smoking and I'm starting to find my place in the hubbub. Everything is still astonishing. Who knew that that big black thing in the kitchen held so many fun things to create? #eggslimeonthetile

Track 3, (published 2001)
Mommy and Daddy are back. There are now 3 new people to add to the 8 in the frame on the wall. My oldest sisters aren't smiling and I fended for myself.

Track 4, (published 2002)
2 of them got on the plane, much to Mommy's tragic relief and Daddy's disdain. There are cracks in our house now. But it's okay because someone planned came to us. A light containing smiles and cute Oshkosh overalls.

Track 5, (published 2003)
Our pain is mostly gone, but the cracks are still there. The trampoline, my stuffed animals, and imaginary creatures are my best friends.

Track 6, (published March 1, 2004)
Another one. She looks just like you, they said. I'd never been more flattered.

Track 7, (published Summer of 2005)
My best friend and I are still cleaning the dirt from under our finger nails. I'd never had so many adventures.

Track 8, (published Feb. 2006)
I feel so old, but beautiful. A pretty white dress hangs in my closet.

Track 9, (published Jan. 2007)
We left our safe haven. Where the crap am I? Why are there so many fields? Where are the mountains? So many new faces. And those 48
hour shifts damaged more than just his health.

Track 10, (published Jan. 2008)
We left again. We found even more fields and there are no mountains to be seen. And I could hopefully get used to the smell. More new friends?

Track 11, (published 2009) 
*scratched* 

Track 12, (published 2010)
Too many vacations to Disneyland, instead of the trip to his heart. The trip we all needed. My fist is crammed in my mouth. The crack continues to trickle to the roof, regardless of the new house.

Track 13, (published 2011)
My brother and sister left for a time. They must have somehow known we'd need the help of their black name tags. 

Track 14, (published April, 2012)
The crack reached the top. Our house split in two, as well as her heart. The sun left us and too many doors closed when they should've opened. I fended for myself.

Track 15, (published Aug. 2013)
We found the sun. Tears of joy followed its rays, but I was the only one who bothered to check the forecast. Something is not right. We're living in the quiet before the storm. Be caref-

Track 16, (published Oct. 2014)
The storm. A storm I told myself would never rage, is here. And I am devastated. And sickened. And in pain...so much pain. Caught in a deathly silent blizzard trying to find a pocket knife
to cut bonds that I didn't even know I was born with. Some of us are back in our safe haven, but it doesn't compensate for much. Someone please see me.

Track 17, (published Sept. 2015)
The storm still rages, but it's okay because I found my pocket knife. And I don't know how,
but I can see color through the flurry of snowflakes now. That wind thinks it's pretty
strong, but it still can't blow faster than my heart. I am no longer, and never will be the
girl drenched from the snow.

Track 18, (to be released, Jan. 30, 2016)
It's almost here. And I'm not ready.
God, please let me still be a kid, or at least stay 17...
I've never felt so alive, so right, just the way I am, just the way things are.

But I don't love writing?

I made a map of my heart 

with hopes to help me find just where my it beats in my chest.
To find just what is flowing through my veins.

I printed many tender, simple things on my heart that day. 
Like, 

my family, Disneyland, fall time, fireflies, airplanes, or "The Newsies"
But something happened that I didn't expect.

Poetry was not among them. 

When people ask me what I want to be when I get older,

I've always told them a writer.
I long for that to be a passion,

but I don't love writing. 
I'm not one who waits and waits all day to get out a piece of paper and spill her guts on it. I'm not one who writes to feel alive.
Besides, Poetry left me a long time ago. 

Maybe I'm a tourist, but I couldn't lie to my heart.

 I am very interested in Poetry and I believe it has the 
exhilarating potential to help me stay alive.

But not enough to make it a piece of me...yet. 
Is it weird that I want to be a writer someday 
but am still teaching myself how to love it? 
writing is so hard.
It has the capacity to make you lose sleep at night. 
Like an angry itch lingering somewhere you can't reach.
It is an idea that constantly hovers over you,
 showing you potential poetry in anything 
from an empty room to a rusted nail.
It takes up all of your thoughts and paper.
In fact, writing thrives and feasts on your paper, brain...and heart.
Like a hungry, nagging child that is so hard to please.
If you really think about it, to most that would be a blessing, 
but to me its a curse because of my inability to embrace it for what it is.
I attempt to pour my heart into everything I write, but it comes out looking like my brain. Making me feel as though my ideas and words are brilliant, but after I get them on paper it smells like wasted potential. 
Writing deceives my heart sometimes. And it hurts. 
But.
That doesn't stop me from striving to love it. To call Poetry to come back.
From yearning to be anxiously engaged in spilling my guts on the page.
I may not love writing enough to print it on my heart,
but for now I'll sit back and read, and write,
and do scary things,
and observe,
and read and write some more.
Anxiously waiting, teaching
my blood to pulse a little faster through out me,
Yearning
For the day when I can print Poetry on my 
heart. 

Confusion(n): You.

Confusion.

So subtle....oh so subtle.

Sly, like a snakes eyes.

Confusion.

The stifling feeling I get when I hear the wrong side of the story.

Like advice from a hypocrite. 

Confusion is contradiction.

Contradiction confuses truth.

and Truth is who I strive to be.

Confusion.

Is barreled up emotions trying to speak their mind.

Like written stories that nobody reads.

Confusion is hurt.

Confusion is the brawl between heart and mind. 

It is the hate you feel after being betrayed by love.

Love confuses hate.

Confusion is hate. 

Confusion is the peaceful, but unsettling, feeling I get when someone I love dies.

It is wanting to scream, but remaining silent. 

Confusion is the quiet before the storm.

Sly. Unsettling. 

Somehow knowing that something is not right.

Confusion 

Is 

You.

You're dead. But still breathing. Still promising me things with your glass eyes. Something that is not right.

And Truth is me. 

Assessing everything you do. Learning how to be your opposite. Clarity. Warmth. And a billion other good things. 

Whether you realize it or not, you are still teaching me. 

You may be a liar, but 

Truth is taking notes. 

I used to write in Pencil

I used to write in Pencil.
everything i said was light and easy to smudge away.
and very easy to erase.
i'd never take risks except on rare occasion, with my eraser tight in hand.
when my tip got dull, i never knew how to sharpen it so i wouldn't.
i would just sit back and compare myself to the pen writers.
when my tip broke, and others would offer me a pen,
i would just pretend that i had another pencil,
the fear of ink on my fingers and clothes
stronger than my love for writing, or just anything.
the comfortable feeling of a pencil in my hand, a trap.
Pen writers scared me. Bold. Owners of their imperfection.
Eternal. 
Their confident messiness reminding me of something I never had.
The permission to be bold. 
But who needs that? when among other pencil writers, that permission seems like a priority, 
and their erasers are sometimes even more crippling than ink on your fingers. 
So why not write in Pen where no one can erase me? 
I used to live in Fear. 
But its okay because I write in Pen now. And I am not Afraid. 

Our Paris (#alive)

The Survivors say that theres no such thing as finding your own Paris
And what I mean by Paris is, your own place that makes you feel wild with life.
A place that no matter what happens, you know that you can always go there. It reminds you of the 206 bones in your body and the fact that you're still breathing.
A place that inspires you.
And yet, here we are,
a bundle of jumbled hats with pom poms,
 doubled up hoodies, ukuleles, smoke, and starbursts.
A group of crazies that aren't supposed to care about each other. 
A group of teens that spend every day together but haven't truly seen each other til tonight, and
a scattered bunch of "dictating" adults that we're not supposed to love.
We stand here in a place thats safe from the world.
We left our brains back on the bus, wrung out and laying to dry,
and here we are watching the sparks dart sporadically in the night sky.
We are in the mountains, bleeding in a place that says our blood is a masterpiece. 
Alive
Here we are, watching the adults burn their walls down with the fire we're standing around. 
There they are, wearing beenies, playing the guitar, and dancing with tamborines.
Alive.
We see them.
And we've decided that we love them. 
Here we are, a bunch of random teenagers. 
The "Inbetweeners" that don't even fit into a stereotype.
A boy who plays his viola for all to hear.
A girl who loves poetry and learns to play the ukulele by the light of the fire.
The kids who feel there is more to life, but are still learning how to see it.
And we are alive. 
Here we are by the fire, with marshmellows stuck to our fingers and voices that are running out of juice because of the songs in our hearts. 
In a world that is heavily influenced by the survivors, I swear we have found life, love, and trust.
And we have found our Paris. 

the love letter i'll probably never send

Dear G,
Thats what I've decided to call you. While other giggling souls chose to call you GareBear or G-Mo, I choose to call you G. It just suits you. Anyways. Now you have a nickname.
I just need you to know some things. I haven't seen you in a year and I've changed so much. I wish I could go back and be the person that you probably needed me to be. And not to be cocky or anything, but I wish you could see me now. I bet you've changed a lot too... and I hope for the better.
G, there were so many things I never came right out and told you. Like, I like you. I know my actions said so, but my words didn't. I'm sorry. I know that you did too.
I'm sorry that I never told you much about me. I would've if I could. I remember the look on your face the last time I saw you. I think you were crying but I couldn't tell because it was dark and you had your glasses on. I know, I don't do good with abrupt-ness either....to say the least. Thank you for not letting go. Just because I didnt cry doesn't mean my heart wasn't heavy. Or that I hadn't cried at all afterwards.
Can I just say that I think you're better than you think you are? Your macho peacock guy failed to work on me from day 1. I know that you knew that, but you pretended that you didn't. Turd. Why do  you need to protect yourself in that way?
When I gave you that note in English 9, I meant it....
I may not have had my head when I did it. But I meant it.
I don't know...I want to say that I loved you. I felt a lot of that for you even though we really didn't know each other at a deep level, but I also know what infatuation means and I think I felt a lot of that too. People always say that teenagers don't know what love feels like. And I know that every twitterpated high school couple says that they're the exception to that statement, but when I look at them it seems like they're not. I don't know. I know I've felt love for someone. I've gone to camps and things over the summer and I know by the end of the few days that I'm there I've made new friends that I love. People won't judge me for that. But I know the minute I say that I love you, then it automatically means I'm infatuated. And maybe I really don't, because real love doesn't care what others say. But I think I do. I don't know.
I may not know if I'm infatuated or not right now, but I do know that I fell in love with the person that only I saw: the person you could become. I fell in love with the potential that I never see in anyone, but saw in you. I fell in love with the thoughts about our potential that took up all of my homework time. I fell in love with the butterflies that I felt in my tummy whenever I knew I was gonna see you. I fell in love with the idea that you loved me.
You know what, G? I do love you. I think everyone feels somewhat love for each other anyways, attracted to each other or not. I know I would've loved you even if I hadn't been attracted to you. Just because with me and you theres the added "attracted" factor doesn't mean that we're automatically a cheesy high school couple...infatuated. We can have the "love-each-other-as-friends" type of relationship with the added "attracted-to-each-other" type of feeling to it because thats what it honestly felt like between us. Anywho. Good thing you know me well enough to know how I talk because I don't think this is making any sense haha.
Well. There ya go, G. Theres everything I never said. Thanks for all that you've done for me. Take care.

mE

Replica Heart

  i wish my heart was cold as stone 

so i wouldn't feel a thing.

i wish i didn't have this heart so i

wouldn't feel the sting of 

the rain beating down on our 

packed up car.

i wished my heart was cold as stone but

i don't want to be anything

like the replica 

behind me.

we silently hoot and holler as we cross the line 

but really our hearts are 

full of pain we can't define.

everything seemed normal as we drove away 

that night as if all of our confusions

would be brought to the light.

i'd be able to stand strong and still 

as we leave you behind and i wouldn't 

feel so all alone.
but i have to remind my myself that
the arrived conclusion will 
only become an illusion.
the farther away we drive from you 

the more intense your gaze seems to be.

intense, but subtle,

silent as eyes.

little did we know that this quiet, scary

battle is something that we'd be fighting 
for the rest of our lives. 

i watch her as she carries the load

across the desolate and barren road.

her shoulders are heavy with the burden

of the past, and that being the 

realization that she was in love 

with only a mask.
as i watch, she tells me without any words

that the object of your affection was 

only in your reflection.

i want to say that i knew that 

was coming, that i didn't fall for your act

but i haven't known anything else

and i dread to say that for a fact.

You may like to think that i hate you

so that the sympathies are in your favor,

but if im honest,
i hate the person in the mirror  
for helplessly loving.

nothing. 
but a 
replica heart.

don't care cuz I'm trying to be human

Half of me is filled with
bursting words and half
of me is painfully reserved. I
yearn for time to myself yet I
crave to be around people. i want to
bring life, love, and passion into
everything i do yet im treated like i
don't know how to do that so i don't.
i want to check my hair in the mirror but
am scared of the pang i'll feel when i see my
guts and everything in me spilled
on my sleeve. do i look like the mess
that my life is? is it okay to look like this?
i crave the feeling of aliveness
but that calculus packet tells me otherwise and
so does that flow of trafficking
teenagers going the opposite way as me.
do I wear high school sickness on my sleeve?
i want to be heard but i act like i am
so therefore i never am,
i'm happy but there are times when inside
i feel heavy. i want to live in the trust
of my intuition yet i also want to
let people tell me what to do because
apparently thinking for yourself is too
much work for our wired brains.
we are complicated creatures.
Contradicting....very contradicting
i feel like a robot sometimes
because acting like one is easy.
especially when im tired. or when
my life at home takes priority over school.
just because we act like robots
doesn't mean we are them. sometimes
being a robot is what gets me through
the day. being human takes work.
being human means smiling, it
means crying, it beings making sense
or not making sense, it means being real,
it means bleeding in a society
that says the color red is too messy.
Being robots mean good ACT scores
late nights, and early mornings, AP
classes, college, knowing what your major is
and the like. In a society that says
these are more important
than stopping to breathe, who can blame me
or us or anyone for going robot on you?
Being human means going against the mainstream
and at the moment that controlling current is almost
right over my head.

Ps. I don't care if this doesn't make sense because im trying to be human

#DifferentDefinitionsOfDifferent

Here's what you fellows said when asked about what it means to be different:

"Eh, why?" 

               "What's it to you? Well, I think it just means to not care what others think. Or to be unique?"

"In trying to be different, one often ends up being like everyone else who is trying to be different. Being different means finding your own unique self, letting it shine and trusting that it is enough."

"It means to not be indifferent."

                                        "To be different means to not be the same. So if someone is "different", they are not the same as you. Often people are labeled "different" in a negative, stereotypical way, while differences can actually help you appreciate life with new perspectives."

                        "To be different: distinct or separate, not alike in emotion or type."

"Here's what first comes to my mind when I think of the word different: Displaying uniqueness, most often in a social setting; going behind or beyond what is commonly accepted as normal or average in society. Can have negative or positive connotations." 

                                               "Being HAPPY with who you ARE."

"Different to me means: Doing things (hobbies, jobs, desires) that others are not used to.....is that enough info?"

                          "For two people or things to be unalike or varying in nature, form, 

behavior, or quality."

                                       "To be different for me means to be yourself. No one else is like you. So being different means being true to yourself rather than trying to be like everyone else (and thus not being yourself)."

I Used to Sing (A simple Testimony)

In the shadowy fields of mind

Where nothing seems to bloom
There lies one individual
Whose laughter was consumed

This person was once brilliant
Aglow with vivid light
But wouldn't stand up for himself
When doubt put up a fight

"What caused this pain?" He wept one night
"I used to stand so tall
I used to sing so blissfully
But my heart won't sing at all"

Time kept going despite his pain
He didn't recognize
The years he simply let pass by
While darkness swelled inside

"There is no love for life." He said
While tears fell on his hands
Hands that had succored long ago
And helped his peers to stand

One night at last he could take no more
While sallow and distraught
He thought that he might end his life
But stopped at a simple thought

"My mother taught me long ago
Of a man who for me died
And only for my happiness
He had been crucified"

Then amid that shadowy field
A splendid sight erected
It was Christ upon His throne
Clearly resurrected

He realized then his pain was gone
And with an honest grin
He knew in Jesus misery
Could not abide therein

Dear Brain

Dear Brain,

Man. You're complex. But you intrigue me. I don't even know how to describe how I feel about you. I feel like I know how you work, but I don't at the same time. 

       I don't understand how you think or what your motives are. What the heck makes you tick? This is the only other thing I've decided about you besides the fact that you are remarkable: You're a worry-wart.

 Yes, I understand that you are just trying to do your job by keeping   me safe. You're always there (along with the Mother) to remind me to grab a jacket when it's cold or tell me when things are too hot. You're just a good protector for me, I guess. 

         But can I just say that there are times where I am perfectly fine? It's like I walk past someone that I appreciate and you immediately set off alarms inside me. What the heck, bro?

 You know what?! I just realized something: What's your deal with Heart? You guys never seem to get along. ALWAYS in CONFLICT. Heart tells me to smile and you tell me to keep walking. Yes, there is a lot of potential danger, but I can't help but wonder if you just have a grudge against Heart. 

           I just realized something again. I bet you trusted Heart. I know and understand that being safe and comfortable is important for you. It takes a lot for you to be willing to try something new...and Heart's all about new. 

 Now that I think about it, there have been plenty of times when we've (you've!) trusted Heart (which I KNOW is very difficult for you) and there may have been times when you felt betrayed or let down because her ideas didn't work. And we got hurt. Did you feel like a failure, Brain? 

  Anywho.

           I guess something else I'm trying to say is thanks. You do your job very well. You're very honorable, Brain, and I feel that you know a lot about me- probably more than I do, actually. But. Heart understands me. Can't you see how important it is for you two to work together?

 I know it probably seems like Heart's motives are to mess you up. But can I just say that that's not her job and she knows it? Her motives are not to destroy or hurt you, me, or anybody. I know that some of your motives (most of them are hidden, you turd) but your main motives are to make sure that I'm still breathing and functioning correctly, that I'm safe, and basically keep me alive. And the lengths you go to achieve that stump me!

  But guess what?!

        Heart's motives are to make sure that I STAY ALIVE TOO. Sometimes when you guys aren't working together we go into survival mode. And thats hard on me and Heart (and I'm sure you too whether you realize that or not). She really wants to make sure that I stay alive in a completely opposite way than you. You see? Your motives and jobs are so different and yet practically the same. Is this hard for you to understand, Brain? Am I loosing you? Basically, I know it seems like there is a lot of conflict, but you guys are really just meant to complement each other.

 Knowing you, you're probably reading this and laughing. But I think I taught you that one. My bad. Yeah this is probably cheesy or wonky or whatever and, yes, Heart did help me with this, but get over it because you kinda did too. You're practically writing a letter to yourself right now.

          But. If you get ANYTHING from this it would just be to keep calm and trust me and Heart. Brain, I understand you and I am sorry if I ever  hurt you, but I can promise you that if you do this you'll feel a whole lot better and whole lot more alive. Hats off to you my Brainiac!

              Love,

                   ME 

Crayons Make Me Miss Things

Some people refer to crayons as "Looking at the face of a dead friend." 
I don't like that. I'm not quite sure that I get it exactly, but in a way it sounds like they're scratching away the things that crayons represent. Does that mean that they've given up on creativity? Is creativity the face of a dead friend instead of an alive one? As if it would kill them to pick one up and imagine. 

When I look at crayons, well, first I just see crayons, but then once I get past the initial shock that I haven't picked one up in ages I see a lot of things. Memories. 

And I miss them. 

Here are some of the things that crayons make me miss:

-Well, I actually just miss the smell of them.

-Playing "House" or "Orphans" outside with my brothers and sister.

Or counting the amount of burrs in my hair when we were done.

-I miss sitting above the creek in my backyard, watching the dust and black marks from the trampoline wash away from my feet.

-The feeling of amazement when I discovered that there was such thing as a "crayon sharpener".

-I miss comparing my feet to my older brothers' after playing all day then seeing whose was the blackest. I usually lost even though I was the one who didn't have shoes. 

-The feeling of triumph when I got new hand-me-downs.

-I miss watching my fingernail slide through a crayon to create all those little curly things. Then feeling awesome when I could actually draw something with the shavings.

-And I also just miss not being afraid to pick up a crayon and draw. Create.

Anyways, thinking about crayons makes me miss a lot of things. 

But I think what I'm really longing for is the memory of everything small that happened to me seemed to be such a triumph. I don't really miss being a child. I just miss that mindset. Having no limitations, besides snakes, and the basement. And occasionally E.T. and Gollum. 

Now the limitations are endless!
I think when people say that they miss childhood, thats what they're really missing. Having no limitations. Yeah, there are things like having to eat your vegetables or time out and things, but that was it! Life was so simple back then. And we can probably be that way again if we allow ourselves to get outside our comfort zones. Sometimes letting yourself experiment and have fun is scary, but being a kid is simple. All you have to do is celebrate and love the little things that make you happy. 
I don't know. This could all be a bunch of wonky-ness, but I guess if you take anything from this it would be that we shouldn't just sit by and miss being a kid again. We should just do it haha. Let yourself have fun! And I don't know what else to say so....yeah haha.

That is the End of my shpeel ;)

An Ordinary Introduction

So, first off, before I say anything else, let me just say this: I am SCARED. 

I am terrified. I have so much freedom. I am nervous because this blog is giving me the chance to be the person that I was never allowed to be. I can free myself from the shackles of my brain. I have the chance to spill my guts and say anything that I want. I have the chance to be honest. I have the chance to be real. Someone totally new.

And I'm freaked out. 

What if this post has good potential, but because of my ADHD brain, I was blind to it? What if I miss all of my chances to be great? 

I have the chance to show the world who I am in a safe environment, so why can't I? I have the chance to be someone who isn't their trials. To be someone who won't have too many toxic "could've's and should've's" later on in their life. I have the chance to change.

                                                        Dang. I have a lot of freedom.

In fact, I feel like I have too much of it. So much of it that my "highschool-infected" brain can't think of a dang inspiring word to say. So I won't. Imma just be myself here, K? There is too much weight on the word inspiring. Too much weight on the desire to be outstanding.

It's almost like because I was given this liberty, my mind didn't know what to do with it and started hooking on to paralyzing words. Words that say "You are inadequate." You'll be rejected. You'll be judged. You don't know a freaking thing about blogs. You won't go out with a bang. You can't write!

Why is it that this freedom now feels paralyzing? 

Along with these stinky words were emotions and desires that were good. I want to change! I want my blog to bring others happiness! I want to show others that being unique doesn't mean you have to be different, or stand out, it just means being you and acting true to your nature. And, man. I want this to be an example of what real freedom looks like.

Remember how at the beginning I told you I was scared? It was also because I wanted to be extraordinary. And I also kinda felt like I had to be in order for this Intro to be even be awknowledged. I didn't want to take the risk of creating something that I knew was going to be flawed. All I could think was:

This needs to be Different. Unique.

These words that should be positive--Extraordinary, Unique, Different--were paralyzing. Daunting. You wanna know why? I was putting too much weight on them. Like if I am anything BUT that then I suck and my blog is wonky. And that thought kinda-sorta froze me in my tracks.

Maybe this pressure is just me. Me and my fierce desire to not be just another student. Just another ID number or just another pen name. 

Man. My mind is all over the place. 

Anywho, but to me, the definition of unique is just being you. And I am ordinary. So maybe it's okay that I am just another human in a big school. It's okay if this isn't extraordinary. Its okay ok if it seems a little boring--and if it truly is, get over it because I'm still learning. I'm new at this. 

Eh, I don't know.

Anyways, if you could get one clear message from all my wonky-ness, it would be that you know that I am ordinary. And I understand. I am not shallow and I crave deep-ness. 

My desire is just so that when people read this they'll feel like someone understands. Thats all it is. Heck, I'm human and this little post was scary for me. Hopefully you know that I hope we're all in the same boat. Hopefully you know that I understand that if you were feeling scared when you first started, or skeptical, or anything negative, someone felt exactly like how you did. I don't know. I kinda want to encourage you to take a freaky risk. Then celebrate no matter the cost. Hey, and maybe, hopefully, because of this, you realized you aren't alone. 

p.s. Oh, and because this was supposed to be an introduction to me (even though it really is if you 

look at it closely) I'll just say my name. 

I am Ricochet Greyson. And I am an ordinary human.