Tuesday, January 4, 2011

A Journalist at Heart

Dreams of the future and 2011 ignite memories of the past. Many years have gone by. 

I remember:
high school, brain tumors, best friends who moved away, best friends who moved apart, best friends forever, best friends whom I ignored, best friends who wronged me, high school crushes, keeping secrets, traveling the world, cutting my hair, cutting my baggage, butterflies in my stomach, hours in the car, hours discussing issues, hours determining what to do, hours editing poorly written articles, a certain innocence, a certain romance, a trip to the mall to mend a broken friendship, a trip to a cat party, a trip to the zoo, just plain trippin, various clubs, various teachers, various days at lunch. 

There are no pictures to encapsulate the moment except for its memory in my brain. I try to grab on but sometimes they slip through my fingers. The time has passed and all that's left are memories. I can distinguish the changes in my personality from the high school version of myself to now. I am different. I changed. I aged. Yet I am the same. My core being, my deepest beliefs, my personality, remain the same, untouched. My self esteem, my face, my body, my habits, my friends changed considerably. Who can tell the difference?

"That part of me left yesterday
the heart of me is strong today
No regrets I'm blessed to say
the old me dead and gone away."
-aka Clifford Joseph Harris, Jr.

I must have always been a journalist at heart. Now I realize my favorite thing to write is a personality portrait. Every human, mammal, place has a story. Or a billion stories, really. Someone just needs to capture it. That person is me. My passion is the human next to me. That's one thing that hasn't changed since high school.  I've always been interested in others, constantly asking questions. What's your middle name? Ethnicity? Dream place to live?  If you died today, would you be happy? Or just content? Your secret? Ultimate wish?

When the same questions are directed at me, I hesitate and think in my head: Who would want to know about me, when I can write about you?

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