I haven’t been fair. Not to the world. Not to myself. When I started this blog, I wanted to try something I’ve always wanted to do – I wanted to be honest. And I have been. Sort of. It’s not that I’ve lied. Because I haven’t. It’s more like I haven’t been saying everything that’s been going on in my mind. And there is a lot. I don’t know where to start. So here goes nothing.

 

I am currently sitting in a small plane flying from LAX to Logan. Dena is sitting at 14A and I am nineteen rows behind her. And I feel so small. I am sitting between two passengers – my least favorite spot. I cannot look out the window and pretend that am a part of the sky. I cannot leave quickly because I am not sitting by the aisle. Instead, I am stuck. All I can see are the cabins and heads of other passengers who I do not know in the dimly lit plane. I don’t mean that I feel small because I’m sandwiched between two passengers. I feel small because I am unnoticed. To everyone, I am not the girl who is thinking about how the plane can plummet at any second. I am not the girl who is thinking about what she will be leaving behind if she dies. What people will think of her, what they will remember when she is gone. No, I am just the girl, frantically typing away at the keyboard, trying to get her thoughts out faster than spilled water. I am the girl, sitting at 33B, whose face is lit up by the fluorescent screen in front of her. The girl whose life is unraveling and unwinding a dropped ball of yarn and all she can do is stare as it tumbles down and down – untangling all the hard work she’s done.

 

I feel small because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Yes, I am supposed to go to school, do work, get rest, and repeat everything. But it just gets so pointless sometimes. Some days I wake up with such a rage – I want to change the world – no, fix it. I want to fix the world and rid it from all the madness and injustice. I am angry about Parkland. I am angry for the Dreamers. I am angry. Those days are the days I wake up and work hard in hopes that I will be able to save these people – these children, one day. But why is it that when I have “glory days” I must have the opposite? Some days I cannot get out of bed to even go downstairs. I feel so unmotivated sometimes. I think I need to find a reason to wake up.

 

But until then, what am I going to do? I am stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

 

— I want to be honest but it is so hard when the world is so cruel