I consider myself quite knowledgeable for my years, and over the past decade or so—it is probably even longer than that—there is a question which has puzzled me immensely, and no matter how much I ponder it, or in which way I attempt to see it, I simply cannot seem to figure it out: Why is being female the greatest of shames?

For my own part I have never wished to be anything else than female, and fact is that even if I were given one million dollars for being genetically altered to become male, I would pass the opportunity up, for I have never desired to be anything else than what I am. The reason for this is that I have always been female, I was made one; ever since the moment of conception, when I came into being for the first time, my twenty-third chromosomes have been homologous. Why this is a fate worth regretting a lifetime, I shall never understand.

Once upon a time—and in some places still—women were sacred creatures because they were the ones who gave birth to new life; they were the ones who illustrated the purpose of all human existence, both biologically as well as symbolically: the smiling sun upon the heavens is a goddess in many religions and Westerners still refer to their world as “Mother Earth”. For millennia the fertile female form has been celebrated, and its essence has been captured by skilled artists of ages past, some of their creations spared from the teeth of time for us to see.

Venus de Milo

Venus de Milo

But those figurines—whose beauty is easily appreciated—stem from ages now long lost. As man left his hunter-gatherer days to cultivate the land his life changed forever, the greatest change of them all however yet to come. But eventually, it did arrive, and the man of today is now the resident of an increasingly post-industrial world, a world in which being female is the greatest of shames.

All ages have their Venuses. The hunter-gatherers had their figurines, such as the Venus of Willendorf, whose true purpose still is disputed—was she a depiction of a goddess, a charm of fertility, or was she simply a piece of art celebrating the beauty of the feminine? The agriculturalists had the true Venuses—the ones who gave their name to the morning star—and the Venus de Milo is still admired by millions every year. The industrialists too have ideal female beauties, but they are no longer celebrated in the same way.

No, the Venuses of industrialisation are raised to feel ashamed over having been cursed already at conception, they are taught that having homologous twenty-third chromosomes is being of lesser worth; the woman of today knows that she is inferior to any man. At least, this is the sole explanation I have come up with in regards to the question I mentioned before: Why is being female the greatest of shames?

In the industrial world the ideal woman is the one who pursues a career; for some reason she has ceased to value herself and instead elevated men to the skies. A modern woman shall not be content until she is identical to a man, and I am terribly sorry for being the one who brings her the news; but this, her ultimate goal, shall never be. She will never grow a beard and speak with a low tone of voice by natural means, for she is a woman—she should take pride in that!

Why Should They Do It?

Why Should They Do It?

Were women an obsolete a part of humanity they would all have been male, but considering how I am no man, there must be a reason for why there are women and why there are men. Fact is that they have different roles to fill, both equally important, despite not being the same. To say such a thing, as I just said, is however forbidden—and very strangely so. Again, I say, this can stem from no reason other than women refusing to acknowledge that they are equal to men.

The world is not fair, if it was, there would be neither males nor females, they would all be the same; both would be equipped with ovaries as well as testes—but such an egalitarian society I highly doubt I will ever see! To make up for this unfair a truth, nature is however most compassionate and makes sure that a foetus during gestation is exposed to hormones that eventually shall make it content with its lot. At least, this has worked in the case of me—I am a delighted female, I desire nothing more, but as far as the rest of humanity is concerned, I simply do not know.

Somewhere, deep inside, even the most female-despising of women must realise that she is seeking revenge for her fate in the wrong way, however so convinced of her own inferiority that she disregards from this and presses on in the pursuit of a goal she believes herself desiring to attain. And, when confronted with something that makes her uncomfortable, she charges and goes to attack instead of pondering its contents. To all such women I have one thing to say: An empty cart makes much noise, a full cart less so.

However, even broken clocks are right twice a day, and the situation of women has indeed improved. No longer need any woman die from complications in childbirth, and she is allowed to vote and to make her voice heard. No longer is a woman kept from making a career, she is allowed to seek the intellectual challenges which all human beings crave. This, I cannot critique—I have no reason to. What I do critique is that women believe themselves being of lesser worth. They are not, why do they even believe so?

There is no need for me to state facts—no-one will listen—but I tell you this—and you may consider it and draw your own conclusions—but ever since women started to doubt their value the world has started to shake. When the people who mattered most to the future of man have abandoned the most glorious of tasks, the consequences can be nothing but severe. All it takes is an open mind and a pair of eyes—look around!—is this world of ours a society that thrives? Something has gone wrong in this most modern age of man, and it is only because some people doubt themselves. I hate to point the finger—so I shall not do so—for those who are responsible know deep within who they are.

The celebrated modern woman is no longer a feminine beauty, she is an aspiring male. How has this come to be? What is it that makes women believe that they are worthless do they not live the life of a man? Shall the world ever come to acknowledge the simple fact that life is not fair, but that one’s lot still is better than none? It is with the greatest of regrets that I say that this I do not know; I know many things but the answer to these questions are still shrouded in mystery to me. One day, however, I intend to change this; one day, I shall know and make sure to tell you, for I believe that being female is just as fine a fate as being male.

Be proud of who you are, do not attempt to change! Take pride in being yourself, for people who know their worth and value have nothing to prove.

Finally, I shall say that man is a creature who learns from his own mistakes; a fact which delights me as the more educated man becomes the more ignorant shall he realise himself to be. And when his ignorance has been realised, there will no longer be any need for the goddesses to be ashamed.


When Sweet Turns Bitter

January 10, 2009

Too commonly it has been said that time is what heals even the most vicious of wounds and this truth has by now become a comforting cliché; the reassurance that all miseries eventually shall come to pass the hope which inspires people to look forward and not remain static in a painful present. The validity of this notion I can verify in regards to both the experiences of myself and others, though I find it important to stress that all pains worth the mention are bound to in some way have left scars.

“The course of life never turns out as expected,” my mother has told me ever since the youngest years of my infancy in an attempt to make certain that her daughter, Miss Josephine, never is to travel farther than she can see down the road. Though I have despised those words since the fist time I heard them, I am certain that my mother’s mention of them served a purpose; reminding me of never submitting to the extravagancies conjured by a youthful mind yet untamed by the wisdom brought on by experience.

The wisest of men are those who have realised that there are no certainties in life; that nothing may ever be taken for granted. To do so is to disregard from doubt and to submit to the convincing allures of folly; to become one of the fools who doth think that they are wise. It is a fallacy which most fear, but which most commit never the less. To my own disappointment, I have realised that neither I am excused for having carried out such an act as my most recent experiences have cemented this new knowledge in my mind.

For the past year there is a certain word which has brought much felicity to my days, a word which I have carefully introduced into every conversation where it rightfully could be mentioned. The word carried great importance to me and I would not lie to you if I say that I indeed were very much in love with speaking the word. To me it was a word of great symbolism and importance; it brought substance into a life so devoid of meaning and possibility for improvement that indolence took the place of motivation in a character once praised for its ambition.

For the past week this word of verbal sweetness—this word of my affections—has grown sour and it now leaves a bitter stain upon my tongue as I attempt to recover from the pains caused by a unforeseen blow to my view of self. To doubt doubt and to be convinced of convictions has proved poison to what was once so very dear to me. The word itself has not been altered—so it can in no way be blamed—but my perception of its sound—once so clear and bright!—has changed and it will never again be spoken by me with the smile of delight.

“How can such deep affections so suddenly be replaced with contempt and disregard?” I hear you ask, and indeed your curiosity shall be satisfied, for I have not authored this incoherent collection of words with the intent to keep you, my dear reader, in the dark. You shall see that the answer to your question—so rightfully asked—is to be found during study of the person affectionate; the object of love seldom to be blamed for a lover’s change of heart.

Cambridge has a noble ring to its name; it speaks of ambition and tradition to my ears; two sentiments which I value and celebrate, and I would have considered it an honour to be chosen to be part of its long history, but such a future was never to be mine. I no longer mention Cambridge when I speak, it has been confined to become a subject of my own reproach; the sweet word has turned bitter and harsh for it is no longer a symbol of opportunity, but one of personal failure and futures to never be known.

Soon I have for two decades been alive and am I fortunate a fifth of my life has already passed me by. One would consider the prime of my youth long gone, but its folly seems reluctant to bide me adieu; we have accompanied each other for too many years to ever be completely apart; were I not foolish in my convictions I would not be who I am; the question being whether a wiser me would be to prefer? Is doubt in conviction what I need to revive?

In retrospect even the most ambiguous of enigmas wear their answers on their sleeves; readily seen as well as read—why did I not consider to look while they were in my view? Alas! That is the way in which folly is defined; as blindness affecting one’s perception of the most obvious; folly being the symptom of complication, of shrouding and concealing what was left out in the open for everyone to see! This realisation is soon to be followed by revitalised reproach: Why was consideration never considered? Why did conviction appear so compelling, so very convincing? Why—oh, why?—was the unclouded clarity of certainty concealed to me?

Had I doubted more—and not been so very convinced—success might very well have been mine. Had I been less convinced—and had I been a person in doubt—my future might have been another! Had I not been as overly confident in myself as I were I would have doubted my abilities, knowledge and talents more. Had I doubted myself I would have questioned what I knew and been motivated to heal the flaws which most apparently were present in my person. Had I doubted and healed myself of conviction’s ignorance my premature honour and pride would perhaps then have been rightfully mine?

Indeed, I committed the fallacy which humanity seems unable to abandon; the inability to realise its own limits. Man is not an omnipotent creature; he does not have the ability to predict the future; all his attempts to do so will eventually be proven wrong. My mistake—I beg you to learn from mine and man’s mistakes—was that I reaped my harvest before my fields had been ploughed. I were so certain of my success that I celebrated it before celebrations were due and failure was all that I left for myself to find.

Perhaps my mother was right when she mused to me that life never takes the course which one expects or wishes it to follow, no matter how much I despised those her words. Had I been more attentive perhaps my fate would have been another; had I convinced my mind to contain a fair amount of doubt I might not have attempted to fly on wings premature. Though I am a fifth of a century old I have barely lived at all and experience cannot easily be considered mine. It is through my folly that I grow to become more than the sum of my parts, it is through the blows of disappointment that I learn the lessons of life.

For, indeed, my dear mother was right: life is fickle and its course is never set in stone. The faintest whisper is enough to steer it off course as life is nothing but a ship sailing in the dark. Wisdom of the past is the only light which serves as a guide, but in a world of unlimited possibilities one is at times all too easily lured to follow the sparkle of fool’s gold.

No longer may Cambridge be the intellectual port where I head, but however knowing that my folly and I are alone to blame I have been given an opportunity to learn from my mistakes—I have been given yet another valuable lesson by life—and I may be more of a person now than I were before sweet turned bitter in my mouth. This pain will no doubt leave a scar, but the initial sting has now faded and it will soon only throb during the darkest hours of my days.

I may never fully forgive myself for having allowed the opportunity of a lifetime to pass me by, but I have learnt that the wisest course of action is to be a fool and doubt one’s wisdom; as even the wisest also are fools.

Living Is Like Sleeping

March 13, 2008

I suffer from insomnia, more often than that it may be considered a rare occurrance. The reasons for why I suffer from the condition are many, but one cause is more prominent than all others. It is waking up that I dread. During my sleep I am pleasantly disconnected from the world. A black void of nothing surrounds me for the hours during which I am blessed by sleep. The void is uncluttered by dreams. It is like a scar in the pace of time, a wormhole which allows me to travel faster than light during the hours which pass from late night to early afternoons. Upon awakening, the whole world and its misery comes clashing into my world of nothing. It is a futile battle my peaceful, voidy night-world fights with the arrival of day.

Life is just like sleeping. The worst part is waking up. I have reached the stage of awakening in my life. I have opened my eyes, having been asleep for 18 years. Now, I see the world with alert eyes, and I do not like what I see. I can not believe that I have been stuck in a dream for so long, I, the one who never dreams. I have adored the black void which I enter every night. I have dreaded waking up, something which nurtured my insomnia. Now, that I have awoken from the sleep of life, I am in the worst morning-mood of my life. And I have no problems understanding it, as I know myself.

I have come to realize that the world is no perfect place. Upon realizing this, I have seen my future life shatter before my eyes. I saw the house of my dreams go up in flames, an arson fire set by a delusional pyromaniac. My future family – the man of my dreams and the children I already adore – are no more. They were gunned down in cold blood by one of the damaged youths of our society in decay. Out of all my dreams, nothing is left but some scattered debris. And in the middle of the misery, is none other than yours truly undersigned, a person who finally had awoken to see the world for what it truly is.

My whole life up until now has been a pleasant dream. I actually believed in the good nature of man and the encouraging words of that everyone may live the life of their dreams. Having awoken from this enchanted sleep, I am so beaten and so worn down. To realize, that is the worst curse of them all.

My dreams may have been vain, but they are what have kept me alive. I dreamed of a life of happiness. I did not ask much of life, and in my innocence, I actually believed that I could be blessed with the things of my dreams. For, it takes very little to make me happy – only the prospect of a happy, future life, including nothing but a wonderful family, a fulfilling occupation and a nice house to call home. Really, it was vain and immature of me to believe that there actually is such a thing as a happy life. Not a perfect life, there is no such thing, but I actually did believe in the promise of a happy life. I have now come to realize that there is no such thing as happiness.

There are no truly happy people in this world. There is always something which induces sadness and cynism in our lives. I ask you, you who are reading this, are you truly happy? I think not. No matter who you are and where you live, there is something which lies heavy on your shoulders, a painful burden which never will set you free.

The world is a mere charade. There are pictures which remind us of dreams, but pictures are never truthful – they always lie. One may see a picture of a wonderful place, an apartment for a person who just has started to live their life far away from their childhood home. Upon further inspection, one realizes that the percieved slice of paradise is nothing more but a filial to hell. Truth is that all aspects of life are like that. There is nothing one can do to change the world for the better, for a single voice is too faint to actually be heard.

I have started to believe that life is a big joke, and that there somewhere in the universe is a witty character who has the greatest time of his life, watching the joke as it unfolds. There is no point in being part of a joke where there is nothing to be won. To having woken up from a pleasant dream and realize that life is a mere joke, that is the greatest curse of all.

There is no point to dreaming, and it saddens me. For, my whole life up until now has been a dream. I have been far away from life in the real world, trapped in an oasis. Now, that I have grown old enough to taste the rotten soup of life’s servings, I start to think that there is no point to anything. There is no point in aspiring for a goal, for no matter the goal, it will turn out to be a hellhole in the end.

Late evenings are best spent with a cup of steaming hot tea, a fruit or some bread, while curled up in a comfortable sofa. The hair left undone, wild as it was meant to be. Comfortable clothes which one only dare to wear at home and late at night, when no one is around.

Late evenings like these spur many thoughts. I am not one of a dying breed, I am one of a breed that during recent years has grown in numbers, lured more people to join. The breed has been looked upon, joked about, seen as being of a lesser value. Ill fit in society, having escaped to where they can not be judged.

Late at night, when all lights are out, their faces are still lit. The dim blue from a screen is reflected in their eyes. Their faces are always motionless, though they however may feature a swift smile or a single tear.

The people who this description fits, are people who are just like I. They are people who have not dared to enter the real world, they fear losing control. They know what the late evenings provide, they know nothing of the gifts of the world, for they have yet to discover them.

During the day people like I sit and sigh. They are gloomy, the dim blue of a screen has rid their faces of all their colors. Eyes half open, every breath a challenge. What they long for the most the day can not provide. It is when darkness falls that they are truly alive.

They take little time to come home, having completed the daily chores. They rid themselves of all memories of the day, the clothes go into the laundry, the hair is undone. A pair of slippers cover their feet, the steaming cup of tea is always nearby.

A pale hand is stretched out far, reaching for the piece of technology which brings meaning into their lives. A remote control, stylish colorful and black. A finger brushes up toward the first button and the dim screen is lit yet again. The blue light which is reflected by their faces is the only contact they ever have with anything. The faces smiling from beyound the screen is the only volountary contact they have with people during the day.

Emotionally drained, or scared of pouring their soul into something, they stare blankly into the air, their eyes seeing things swirling past on a screen lit from behind. The only way people like this can ever feel and experience, is through the actions of others, the emotions people of plastic have been payed to perform.

When tragic stories are presented before them, they may cry and rid themselves of the feelings they have bottled up inside. When romantic stories are dancing before their eyes, they sit and sigh, wondering why such wonderful feelings, such magical experiences never are theirs to adore.

Blind are these people, those to whom I belong, who believe that they never will soar, having been too scared to ever take off and see if they can fly. Saddening it also is for these people, who disappear while being in front of screen. They withdraw from the world, convinced that their only friends, their only allies in life, are those who never have been born.

It can be argued forever if it is wrong for people to adore others who never have been true, people whose faces belong to others, who are real, but who in turn does not know that their audience exists.

Some may say that these people are fed with lies, stories which never have been true. But these people have understood something others have not – the importance of being able to dream.

The dream, the idea, of one day being a special someone, like the ones being romanticized on screen, is what keeps these people alive.

As one of these people – as one of a dreaming, non-dying breed, still being one with the ability to reason and argue – I say that this breed should be let be. For, one day, they will all walk down a street and bump into a person who upon looking them into the eyes knows that they have found their special someone who they will share the rest of their life with.

Upon having seen eternity in someone else’s eyes, the plastic people of the dim blue light, the people who are not themselves, will no longer appeal to the breed to which I belong. For, what they have dreamed of during late evenings with steaming cups of tea, is now theirs, now and forever more.

As of late I have found myself considering philosophical questions to the extent that they no longer are philosophical in nature, but rather essential, all in order for me to remain sane. In a time of doubt – of one’s expections on life, on one’s choices of paths to follow – these questions are more important than ever before.

It is often it occurs that a question or a thought is caught in a loop in the brain’s complicated biochemical circutery. The same phrase is repeated over and over again, presented for one’s cognitive and study-essential abilities time after another. Sometimes one is able to free oneself from the sticky grip of the question which at first seemed rather harmless. But then there are the times where this thought’s adhesive is more persistent than ever before and the only way of escaping its grip is to confront it.

Has the essence of being human evolved over time? This question has been crawling around inside my head. It has scrathed my frontal lobe, it has conquered the gap between my hemispheres, it has snuck between my cortex’s grey matter and the underlying white. The question has parasited on, me has given me no time to rest. For, every time I have closed my eyes, tried to escape the demands I face, it has been there.
What does it mean to be human? Has the essence of it evolved over time?

It does not take one long to realize that a choice one has made never was the right one. Of this, I have become painfully aware, all as my college studies have advanced. When the joy of waking up in the morning is no more, when every breath seems worthless to take, that is when one knows that a choice has been made and altered life in a way it was never supposed to.

The feeling of despair is ancient. For ages it has told man that he is in danger, that something has to be done about it. The feeling of anxiety is a body’s own alarm. It tells us when something is wrong. Depair and anxiety are feelings one would be better off without, and that is why they motivate us to rid ourselves of what it i that troubles us.

In past times the feeling of anxiety must of course have been present – if not, it would logically not exist. Every element of the human body – from the largest structure to the smallest feeling – has been crafted my millions of years worth of evolution to ensure that the human race would be sturdy in any battle it would ever encounter.

It is possible that the anxiety of ancient times was simple in its nature, I am however no expert in the field. An unpleasant, but hard to define, feeling of worry is located just below the rim of the ribcage, accentuated when the little creature which is the source of anxiety moves – triggered by bodily, emotional and external stimuli. It is a little creature in my eyes, Anxiety, thought I know better. But a feeling which is so alive as anxiety has to be more than just neurotransmitters between two neurons in the abdomen. When it comes to the human body I am sure that it is more than just the sum of its parts.

By definition anxiety is “distress or uneasiness of mind caused by fear of danger or misfortune.” Of course this feeling must have been present during ancient times. There were many dangers which surrounded the mere act of being alive and breathing:

“Will the sickness the other tribes have suffered reach ours?”
“Will the resources of the upcoming summer be sufficent to sustain us yet another winter?”
“Will the children grow old enough to give rise to a new generation?”

Anxiety is however not a constructive feeling per se. During short periods of time it may be constructive in its effects of being a motivational force. The human body is however fragile (not to external injury) but to what it is capable of doing to itself. Prolonged expoure to anxiety hurts the body, being deconstructive to the structures which make up the organism. If anxiety was designed to fulfil such a purpose, then I personally doubt it would ever have been incorporated into human nuture throught the course of evolution. For, the skills humanity have aquired are all supposed to help and motivate her, push her forward to face new frontiers. These skills were not designed to be the shovel with which she slowly undermines herself.

In the modern society, among all the sparkling inventions and shining symbols of luxury and abundance, anxiety is a dirty host which grins and sneers when it has dug its teeth far into its next victim. Why Anxiety glee? Because it knows it will not let go of the human sould easily. For years it will tains it, paint it black with its promises of misfortune. All in the name of destruction, which irt so well represents.

Of this I have been aware for some time now. Ever since I made a terrible choice a few months ago which has come to affect my every day ever since. In April (which seems to be so far away now) I chose not to pursue my life’s dream, but to settle for something easier and more simple – something which would help me aquire the point of my whole existance earlier. It was a decision which was not wholly flawed, but close to being so. This choice of mine has haunted me since the late days of August.

Since then, I have been pondering the essential questions of life.

“What is the point of being alive?”
“What am I supposed to do with my life?”
“Who am I?”

For years, my whole life to be exact, I have been sure of who I am, who I was supposed to become. I still know what I would like to become the most, who I am deep inside. It is just that there are some obstacles which have to be conquered before then, some problems which have to be solved. I have based my whole life upon something I am not sure of, nor the reason for me being so convinced.

Had I only stopped and asked myself who I truly were, perhaps then the true me would have answered – truthfully. One question I already have answered. The answer I keep close to my heart. I yhope for that the answer will give me energy to move on, that the reassurance of having one of life’s questions answered would help me subdue the hungry beast of anxiety. That this is true, I already know. It is the only star upon the pitch black heavens of my life.

The other questions are what nurture Anxiety. Every time I release the cognitive firewalls my body has created to presrve my sanity for a later day I nurture the beast which is curled up just below my ribcage. I imagine it being similar in appearance to a porcupine, raising its spikes in delight from having been nurtured yet again. It grows larger and larger, more and more fierce. It rolls around inside me, it tastes what my insides are like in flavour. (I imagine my taste is as dull as my spirits, something whoch brings me some joy, knowing that Anxiety will not be dining on delicacies.)

The questions which Anxiety draw their energy from are the ones to which I have no answers.
“What am I supposed to do with my life – should I do what brings me joy or what brings me the aids of fulfilling my goals?”
“Should I continue walking the path I have chosen to follow, even if half a year upon it has brought me nothing but despair?”

The most sentient question I should ask myself in this context is why I even ask myself all these questions. I already know the answer to them. And by definition, knowing the answer to something is the opposite of having an unanswered question.

So, what is it which makes me suffer from anxiety? What is it inside me which nurtures the little beast inside me, whom I have come to know as Anxiety?

To these questions I already have the answers. It is the fear of losing control of my life which brings me all this sorrow. I know what I have but I do not know what I may recieve later on. The wise part of me, the part which has survived the great darkness of Anxiety, tells me that I should gamble for once ion my life. For, the one who never bets will never win. The reasonable part of me, which is less subdues by Anxiety, then counters with telling me that gambling is a situation aimed in only one dierction – loss and eventually depair (which is another name of Anxiety’s). In gambling the gambler never wlaks off with the pot of gold. An outcome like that was never the point of gambling, thus it is also knows as hazard games.

So, here I am, stuck inbetween two absolutes. The reasonable and the wise one. I can not side with either one for they are both equally large parts of me. Without either of them, I ould simply not be me.

Can questions give rise to answers? Can one question give rise to more than one answer? Has the initial question I asked myself been answered yet? Are there questions which never will be answered?

No question will ever be answered fully, something will always be left unsaid, unthought of, unanswered. Questions give rise to answers, that is their nature, their sole point of existance. The inital question will never be fully answered, but part of it has been illuminated.

Has the essence of being human evolved over time?
My current state of mind says that it has. As well as that it has not.

Not, in a sense of that anxiety is part of the human creation. The “distress or uneasiness of mind caused by fear of danger or misfortune” in part of human nature. As a part of it, it can never be removed. Thus, the essence of being human has not changed over the millions of years it has been exposed to change, all because the human being is more than the sum of its parts – which is the essence.

Then again, what is the point of being alive? Is it not to give rise to a new generation of people who eventually will come to ponder the point of being alive? In my eyes it is. In the world mankind has found itself in today so many essentials of life have been impeded by constructions which will serve no purpose the day we are gone. Because of such insights, the only sentient conclusion is that life is too short to not enjoy. For, in a hundred years, no one will care whether or not I came to terms with myself. In a hundred years, it will not matter. For, by that time, I will have given rise to people who ponder the same question I struggle with for the time being.

Already knowing the answer to my problems, though I do not wish to admit it to myself, one may wonder what I am doing with my life. For a person who is not me, I must appear to be self-desructive – insisting upon doing things I could not care less about and which bring me grief.

In a perfect world, there would be no such thing as anxiety. In a perfect world I would follow the directions my heart has written down for me. If I only chose to disregard ffrom the torn parts of myself. If only I chose to see what plan my heart has laid out for me to follow.

For really, it does not matter whether or not the essence of being human has changed over time. What matters is what is for the moment and the best way to treasure it.

(If advice from others is easier to listen to than one’s own, then listen to someone who offers advice. Following one’s heart is the wisest point of action. To do things which bring one no joy is pointless. By the time one’s life has come to end, one will only regret what one never did. Like following one’s heart and not having lead the perfect life, but the life which made one happy. For, all human beings, all people, are wonderful creations who deserve to die with a smile of success upon their lips as the graduate from life.)

There are times when I think that the earth revolves too slowly around this closest star we like to refer to as our sun. Our blazing, warming, smiling sun. Our very own star. I have not seen it for a while, the heavy clouds in the skies have kept me from being blessed hy its beams. Even if I am not allowed to catch a glimpse of it, I know that our pale blue orb in the sky revolves around it and at the same time it revolves around its own axis. This is common knowledge today, a hint of the countless advencements we have done since the firt sentient human being stood up in their homeland.

There are times when I think of what life must have been like, so many hundreds of centuries ago. In some ways it must have been so easy and in other ways so very hard. Easy in a way that they had no modern day worries to be concerned over, hard in a way because they always feared to be the next meal of a predator lurking in the grass – somewhere out there. They may have feared for their life at times but at least they did not have to endure the every day stress we modern humans surround ourselves with. We think we are advenced with our space-probing technology, our global communication and our baffling political battles. But really, are we much more than the ancient humans we are descended from, or are we still those people, just with other tools and modern equipment?

There are times when I feel that I am ready to give up, that I can not stand the clock on the wall revolving anti-clockwise. They days I live through are so short, and still they seem to be without end. I wish that the future would arrive soon, and still I do not want it to. I am scared that I soon will have to stand all on my own and still I can not wait for that day to arrive. The days I live through are so very short. Just a few more hours and I would be delighted. But it is not always that easy. Not everything turns out the way one wishes it to do – most often it turns out in a wholly different way.

College really has taken the best of me. I felt so sure of myself, confident that I would master all challenges laid before me. Because I am Josephine, the one and only. She who can do everything. And just as well she who believes in herself a little too much, a little too often. I am struggling to keep up with the lectures, I am struggling to understand. It is not hard, but I am not really all interested in it. I feel that I have done my share of years in school, I am ready to face greater challenges. I wish to face the greatest challenges of my life. Not in a decade, but now.

I have second guessed myself so many times. Especially after my first exam, which I barely passed. This is what I am supposed to be good at, and still I fail. Is this really what I am supposed to study, is this right for me? There are so many other occupations I would be happy with having, why am I not studying those subjects? I already know the answer, and still I second guess myself. Either I will not feel like I am accomplishing anything, or the profession I want to have does not exist. I searched the Internet during one of my darker days, time I had stolen from reading and preparing for my upcoming final exam in anatomy, I searched for a new direction, a new goal. I scrolled through a seemingly never ending list of possible professions, and I found none which intrigued me.

I already know what I wish the most to become. But my age keeps me from realizing this dream, my current life impeds those wishes. In a decade or so, I may fulfil that wish of mine. But a decade is a long time. If the clocks I have surrounded myself with are moving backwards, if the earth revolves around the sun in the worng direction – then what am I to do? Shall I endure these first 3 years of which I have finished only 2 months. Two months which feel like an eternity. And after the 3 years I have barely started, I have 1 year before me and 2 more. And then another 2 years. Then I can work, though I will have other things in mind – making preparations for fulfilling my life’s dream. Studying, in a sense, for the exam I have been looking foward to for so many years. To be part of a profession which is not recognized because it is too important to mention. Too important to claim one wishes to be a part of.

It is hard when one’s mind is older than one’s life. When I speak to people, I fool them into believeing I am someone else, simply by being myself. What is up with that? It is like the I and the me are two different people. The person people see is young and frail, scared of everything. The person I truly am is compassionate, caring and mature. That these two people do not mix very well together has created the visible illusion of a frail person with few social skills. I know why this is, why people percieve me as someone I am not. It is because the person I am never has mixed very well with the person other people see. To constantly never be understood because one is older than one is – that is what shapes a person with weak social skills in public. An outgoing, kind person is hidden beneath. And the stress of college had burid this true me even deeper, she has not had the time to surface for a long time – only through my occassional analysis of the world I live in.

I have to endure these stressful times, these hard days. The workload I have to endure, I will graduate into a profession I will love having but never feel fulfilled with being occupied with. I will do all this, live through the days that turn from day to morning instead of the other way around, all because I am a decade older than myself. One decade into the future I will be truly me. Holding the new life I have half created. And then, I will smile. Then I wil be fulfilled.