Hello internet, this is strange. If anybody is actually reading this, here is a little bit of broken insight into who I am as a person.
My world revolves around reading and writing, but not the fake, conventional five paragraph essay you would find crumpled up deep inside a fifth grader’s desk or some irrelevant book your teacher is making you read. The writing I would like to express is my personal art, a self-proclaimed masterpiece I hope to develop as I tumble through this never-ending laundry cycle that is life. And the books I read are books that are just on the brink of imagination and insanity, things that could never happen but we all wish would. I read books about real people, real beings that walked on this very Earth and defied every stereotype ever handed to them on a silver platter, and instead climbed a rocky cliff, barefoot to somehow unimaginably change the world.
These are the people and characters I strive to emulate, but instead I spend my days forgetting about my real goals and focusing on extraneous, materialistic societal expectations.
Today marks the beginning of summer and my main ambition for these next two and a half months isn’t to travel the world or miraculously find a million dollar job, but to simply become a better, more knowledgeable human being.
And will this really work? Will I really become a better person? I’m not even the slightest bit sure, after all, life is just a guessing game…