Creativity thrives on taking the ordinary to a new level by attempting to bring to life something that is even more brilliant or stimulating than that found in the simplicity of real life. It takes a person willing to go beyond the constructs of the ordinary to use their mind as a tool to build something that is profound, even if it is only profound in their own mind. I would imagine there is an element of danger in creating such an idea of beauty that can only be appreciated from within. Setting up the ideal in one’s mind can be devastating without at least the solid knowledge of the boundaries that not only the idea has, but also the mind. To have a beautiful thought remain dormant in a locked away mind and to never be able to see it come to fruition, it would be such a disappointment to have to settle for the lesser, but more realistic opposition.

This is the trouble that most cynics face in their daily lives, or at least the trouble I face. It is the need for more than can be offered by my surroundings. I believe I demand more from everything and everyone else around me—and perhaps more than what is believed to be humanly possible, because I expect the same from myself. I fail to simply accept what is available and easy because I have let my creativity rule me for years now and to settle is something I have yet to come to terms with. I have gone along believing that no matter how cynical I became, I would always have a small piece of hope with me, albeit false. But as I have gotten older, I’ve come to understand that I haven’t carried with me this false hope that one day I would see my dreams come true, but rather I’ve never lost the desire to create new impossible ideals. I don’t ever expect anyone or anything to end up the way I envision it, but I always envision it, in the big picture, nonetheless. That desire is always present somewhere in my mind. And even though I know those beautiful thoughts will never come to fruition, I always hang on to the desire to keep creating, no matter the cost or the disappointment.

Life was never meant to be a game of programming the world as each being or individual sees fit. We are born with the gift of individuality, but only the strong are blessed with the courage to embrace it. I like to think the world is made up of small pieces of canvas waiting for someone to make their mark. Maybe once or twice, someone will take part in designing your canvas, but only your hand has the ability to create.

I have learned to love the ability to envision without ever being able to know it as real. Mind of a surrealist or mind of a crazy person, it is up to the artist to illustrate the path. At some point, we all have lived the life of a struggling artist; we bleed for our art in different ways. Some artists bleed to create tangible pieces, whereas others use their minds as their medium. But it is up to the artist to use their hands and create the nearly perfect physical object exactly as it was imagined in the intangible hive of theoretical perfection. The result is hardly ever perfect.

Maybe the broken minds were just given the torn piece of canvas, maybe the survivors were given an extraordinary breadth of skill to repair it, but no soul can ever take part in creating outside of their canvas. It is the confinement that makes us crazy; the confinement that obstructs the idealistic perfection. Our minds can see the big picture, but our hands are confined to our own piece of the canvas. It is only in the struggle to find the balance between perfection for the one and harmony of the many, that we can come to terms with the only viable outcome, imperfection.

Surface level thinking is so much simpler. Whoever said ignorance is bliss had the right idea. Nothing substantial can possibly stem from surface level thinking because ingenuity requires so much more reflection and evolutionary thought. It isn’t easy feeling the pull of deep thought. Knowing, and more importantly, understanding the truth in the lies, reality from fantasy, and the most basic of concepts, right from wrong, takes a great toll on the psyche. A wounded psyche, a spirit crushed by understanding, is it really better to live with eyes wide open? This lifestyle is irreversible, once innocent minds become exposed to injustice and inequality, that mind has reached the point of no return. When this understanding combines with a feeling of hopelessness, as it often does, it really creates a false hope complex.

I go through my share of ups and downs with my false hope complex. I say it is false because somewhere in that often suppressed part of my mind that provides me with the ability to think abstractly and to form rational opinions, I am constantly reminded of the fact that my positivity is going to be short lived and will likely dissolve rather quickly. I haven’t always thought this way; I really wasn’t the cynical seven year old calling the Barbie-loving girls conformist, superficial, eating-disorder promoting disgraces to woman-kind. I just thought that privately and smiled at them at lunch.

The year before I became Homeschooled—Go Bookworms!—I was a navy blue uniform clad silent thinker. When my first grade Catholic school teacher read us the Harry Potter books, I was the student who was a book ahead of her, narrating the character’s British accents in my head. I gave the popularity contest a try too. I pretended to like the things they liked, I tried to start the trends as they often did, but it only resulted in more ridicule and less social status. But the minute those six year old bitches came to school wearing my damn Powerpuff Girl shoes, I remember thinking to myself, these conformist bitches can kiss my ass. Or whatever the G rated equivalent of that may have been.

What I find fascinating now in retrospect, is that my walk-to-a-different-beat personality really didn’t begin forming in my colorful homeschooling years; my deep thought embracing mind began developing during my creatively suffocating Catholic school years, however short they may have been. And maybe everybody begins their lives embracing their unique and developing minds, but perhaps are just subject to the oppressing forces at work in the Catholic school system in which I began, or, for many, in the public school system. Social influences, scary though they may be, serve as a guiding force in the formation of these kids lives. I was lucky enough to have been given the freedom early on in my life to expand and explore my creative interests and to escape the tight grasp of public, or rather catholic school, but many are not as fortunate as I was. Their growth may have been stunted early on and their freedoms of individuality may have gone under the scrutiny of those same six year old girls too, only for years and years to come.

These untouched, malleable minds are bravely relinquished into the hands of certified educators by parents who blindly have faith in the capabilities of these educational figures. Those educators are then faced with the challenge of—putting it bluntly—not fucking up so badly that the kids face irreparable damage. That is quite a bit of responsibility for these underpaid hard-working teachers. But I don’t want to make this book about the failures of the school systems, though I do have plenty of things to say about their inadequacies. I merely want to give a glimpse into my early formative years, because I feel that my early experiences are so important in understanding my views and perspectives on my experiences as an adult.

Existentialism is a philosophy that accentuates the uniqueness of the human experience. The existential philosophy posits the idea that no two people have the same experiences; no two humans are the same. The main concern of this philosophy is to understand how every person finds their identity through free will and personal choice. Just as no two people have the same fingerprints, no two people have the same life experience. To some, this might seem like we live in a lonely and isolated world, disconnected by our personal experience and alienated from others. However, I think that although every person has a unique story to tell, it is in this story telling that we find some commonality. That is why I love observing people on the streets or even in the halls of the college because I enjoy trying to understand a little bit about their experience. I observe their clothing, the way they walk, who the person is with, their body language, even the amount of eye contact they have with me as they walk by. All of these things give me a glimpse into their lives and tell me something about their story.

There is a restaurant in Crystal Lake that I sit at for hours watching the people who come in and out. The restaurant itself has a personality that is unlike anywhere else. The curtains that line the booths are blue on one side and red on the other with gold posts keeping them standing. The booths all have striped upholstery with a single dangling light fixture hanging over, to give each table a nice, warm glow. Each booth is just a little different from the next. The buffet is always exactly the same, not one item ever moves from its designated spot marked with a little ceramic tag. One of the many things I love about the restaurant is the music from the 1940s. I know exactly what to expect when I walk in every Monday and Wednesday. I will hear some of my favorite songs like, Ella Fitzgerald's Someone to Watch Over Me and Billie Holiday's God Bless the Child.

I know to expect the regulars sitting at the exact same tables, as well as the managers walking around, talking and handing out fresh garlic breadsticks, even if they see you are already having dessert. I am convinced the two managers are brothers. They both wear simple white button down shirts with ties that I imagine their kids gave them as Christmas presents. They are both jolly and round and they are always ready to strike up a conversation with you, whether it be about his morning of snow blowing, or about the often lethargic look on my face.

After taking residence in my usual booth across from the ICEE machine, I grab a cup of black coffee and scan the perimeter of the room. My nose is half stuck in my mug, inhaling the gritty, yet smooth scent of pure energy. I know that without my coffee, the impending migraine is bound to set it. As I am basking in the goodness of my mug full of liquid life, I see all of the regulars. There's the elderly woman reading a novel in her corner booth--always a new one each time I see her, and then there's the young boy who always comes in with his dad. The little boy has a mischievous grin on his face and I look down to see him stirring and swirling a strange blue-gray concoction inside a clear plastic cup. i watch as the colors separate only to realize he mixed two flavors of ICEEs. My next thought falls into my cup of coffee and splashes me in the face; I wish I were young enough to mix ICEEs. Instead, I sip my gown-up drink and sit back.

I love the restaurant because of the wonderful 1940s music that is always playing, along with the clientele who are mostly elderly. I imagine that is why they play the unusual music. The elderly couples who come in for lunch are always so nice, and they are always willing to share some of their stories with whoever will listen. I can tell by their enthusiasm that they are happy to have the opportunity to share their wisdom with their younger counterparts. All of the older folks who are regulars at the restaurant seem unburdened somehow. Despite their obvious physical ailments, some walk with canes, others with walkers, I can't help but sense that they have let go of their worries. They live completely in the present--not putting much thought into the future and only visiting the past to share their stories.

I had an excruciatingly long day, so I go straight for the dessert bar. I go all out by layering swirled vanilla and chocolate ice cream on top of the massive double chocolate brownie that has been daunting me since I walked into the restaurant. I finish off the decadent masterpiece by sprinkling some happy looking rainbow sprinkles on my snow-covered mountain. As I walk back, the clicking sound my own three-inch heels are making annoys me. Because I am so distracted, I nearly run into the nice elderly man who always walks over to my table to share stories with me, we both try sidestepping each other, both of us moving in the same direction. He looks up, smiles, and says, "Shall we dance?" We laugh and walk back to our tables.

I am quietly digging into my sugar coma-inducing sundae, listening to the elderly man who is telling a middle-aged couple and their two children a story about his past career. The man explains that he used to be a chemical engineer who worked on confidential, or as the man put it, top-secret projects. He told the couple about the company that he worked for and how they had a policy about what happened when he got sick. If one of the employees of the company got sick, they were not allowed to see their personal physicians. They were legally bound to only go to one of the doctors on staff. The couple shrugs in disbelief and the man responds by laughing and saying, "Hey, whatever, I'm still here and still going strong".

As he sits back down to his lunch, he dismantles two napkins to make little place mats for him and his wife then gets her another mug of tea. I imagine what he and his wife looked like when they were my age. And although I understand that their lives are so different from mine, I see something in their faces that makes me connect with them. Sometimes i think that we are all here at the restaurant talking, watching each other to alleviate the loneliness. Although existentialists argue that we are all alone, it seems like humans are constantly seeking companionship and community.

I have read Gilgamesh over and over. It is a story that was written a thousand years before the Illiad, on eleven clay tablets. It is one of the first recorded stories, and even here, one of the central themes of the story is the idea that human beings desperately search for a way to ease the loneliness. Enkidu, one of the two main characters in the story says, "Deep in his heart he felt something stir, a longing he had never known before, the longing for a true friend". Gilgamesh, the other main character, explains that he is looking for his double, his second self.

The existentialists may have it right; we may be trapped in our loneliness. But as I sit in this restaurant, I can't help but think that it may not be loneliness I fell, but instead solitude. We could all be looking for our double in an attempt to find someone else to bring into our isolated lives. As I sit in this restaurant watching everyone move around and share their stories, I can't help but feel connected to them in some way, because we are all searching for something or someone. So human beings may all indeed be alone. But on this day, in this restaurant, all of these people have found a common bond with each other that is absolutely undeniable. What is most special to me about this bond is the fact that it spans across multiple generations. Because I feel like such an old soul, I have come to appreciate and truly cherish the old knowledge and wisdom of the past generations whose experiences shaped the woman I am today.

After a long and strenuous day of working, running, and dealing with the usual insanity of the day, I sat down and turned on my favorite comedian, Conan O'Brien. On his final show, he made a surprising comment about young people being cynical. He said it was his least favorite personality trait. The reason this caught my attention was because of my New Year's resolution--to not be so cynical in 2010.

As with most New Year's resolutions, it was a swing and a miss in a record six minutes. I, of course, know my reasons for being cynical, but are there really that many other cynics in the world too? After all, if Conan said there are too many, he must be right. That got me thinking, why are young people so cynical? TV is always hopeful, what with the men objectifying women on shows like Jersey Shore. The music is also great, with lyrics about getting drunk and running away from responsibility. I choose not to buy into these things because they set the disappointed idealist in me on fire. But there must be people who watch it, because they are still airing the show.

I can't help but feel like this generation, my generation, set ourselves up for disappointment. Instead of singing about love, as Frank Sinatra did, we sing about drunken mistakes. Instead of enjoying television programming about overly hopeful, large families like the Bradys, we watch reality TV where the most commonly used words are covered by a beep or a censored bar over their mouths.

Maybe our generation is just spoiled. Maybe nothing will make us happy. Maybe we need to have all of our luxuries stripped of us before we can appreciate the endless opportunities which are presented to us. Boredom has become an epidemic in our society. Instead of remedying our boredom by incorporating fulfilling activities such as volunteering, which might make us grow as human beings, it seems young people would rather hide behind mind altering drugs and alcohol.

I hate to thing that my generation has no hope, but m experience so far hasn't proven this sad theory of mine wrong, yet. But I make it a point to try to put the pessimist in me to rest, impossible though it may seem. Has it worked yet? Well, as I said before, I made it six minutes into the New Year before making a cynical comment about the drunk texts I got minutes before the New Year's ball dropped. Maybe the light has gone out on my New Year's resolution, along with my hopes of becoming an optimist. Whatever the case may be, what is done is done and I can't change the feelings which were lying dormant, a time bomb waiting to explode. The 21st century has surely provided the ammunition needed to unleash it. It's too bad I couldn't have been born into an earlier generation.

I love listening to stories my grandmother tells me about when she was a young woman living in Ukraine, and then later when she came to America. She tells me about the weekend dances she would go to, the way she would dress in a way that was feminine, yet modest and understated, and the way the men would be so chivalrous and respectful when they took her out. I swear I was born in the wrong decade; it scares me how I relate more to my grandmother than to my contemporaries. Things have changed so drastically since then. I wish I could have seen the way people interacted and the state of the world, especially during World War II. I may simply be an old soul. I suppose it's possible I might have just been just as cynical back then as I am now.

In a world of promiscuity, relentless boredom, and fast food, I find solace in books and personal blogs. i have found what can only be described as Cynics Anonymous. It is a place for cynics to vent. I figure if i can't overcome what my friends call my snarky cynicism, I might as well meet other people who think like I do. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my quest for people who have lost faith in the human race.

Our morals as generation Millenials have dropped almost as low as our pants. The quality of our entertainment rivals the quality of the processed Hostess foods we consume. And our ability to communicate is almost as limited as our attention spans.

I can't change people's ways. I can't petition to stop airing the television shows that I find despicable. I can't stop the music that streams over the radio. And I can't make women have respect for themselves. I can only change my state of being. I can read instead of watch TV. I can sing the songs that I wish played on the radio. And I can have respect for myself as a woman. Gandhi once said "Be the change you wish to see in the world". I can be the change I wish to see in the world. Not for anyone else, but for me.

Since kindergarten, we are taught to respect our elders. Or so we think. What we are subconsciously taught is to obey the demands of those in the dominant position. Is this fair? Not in my opinion. My homeschool tendencies tell me this is the result of abused power on the part of the adults.

This power is abused not only in the school systems, but also in the workplace. This conditioned blindness starts when children are most impressionable. It starts as soon as children are enrolled in school. This is not to be mistaken for simple behavioral conditioning, I don't mean to suggest that guidance from parental figures is a bad thing, I am not talking about adults teaching manners. That is a whole different story.

To give an example using the school system, take the nasty case of discrimination that took place at a local middle school. Students who wore black were forced to open their lockers so security could search them for razor blades. They were then asked to pull up their sleeves to check for cut marks. They had no reason to check these students, they were simply singled out because they looked a bit different. This search was illegal not only because they did not have probable cause to conduct a search and seizure, but also because they profiled the students. While these actions were appalling to me, what was even more shocking was the fact that the students willingly complied with the unfair demands without a moment of question or hesitation.

It makes sense that this illegal activity did not raise a red flag in their minds, they have already been conditioned to comply with whatever the authority figures demand. This is not the first time I've encountered this nor will it be the last. I would provide you with other examples but I really shouldn't go there. I might get in trouble with my authority figures.

Sometimes I feel as though I have a devil and an angel on my shoulder, only, the angel has been replaced with a second devil. It's as though the angel died in a pool of cynical gray matter. But my devils are different, one is the badass homeschool chick who goes against the grain, and the other is the caged animal with the pasted on smile pretending to have the utmost respect for everyone and their actions. Not to sound overly dramatic, but dealing with incompetent authority figures hurts me in a way that I cannot describe. I think a piece of my soul dies every time I witness this unfortunate situation.

Trapped is what we are. Escape, though we may dream about it, is not an option. This experience is not an isolated incident. This state of mind is present in most work environments as well as most academic institutions. There are a few ways to cope with this agitating truth, I use my cynicism as a shield against the chaos and stupidity of the things I cannot change.

How can I be expected to respect people who have no respect for me? We all know who has the power, it is the person holding the paycheck or the red pen to the grade book. I may not be able to take charge of situations, but I can learn to deal with the incompetence of those who do.

Most everyone calls themselves Green, but no one is really Green. Recycling a bottle is not going to make a difference. The planet is collapsing one oil rig at a time. My throwing away a can of Monster is not going to kill the earth, it may not be great for the earth, but it's not going to make a big difference. Everyone has seen the news, everyone knows how devastating the oil spill in Louisiana is, that is what makes a difference on the environment.

But pretending to be Green is easier than outwardly saying it is out of my control. Let's all just pretend and carry around our cute little Recycle Tote Bags around. What the hell.

A friend of mine came to me with his own theory today. He said that our generation should be called The Blue Generation. He said that this generation is the over-diagnosed, over-medicated generation. It seems as though everyone has a diagnosis nowadays, if you're not Bipolar, you're ADHD. If you're not suffering from Major Depressive Disorder, you're suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorder. When we're blue, we run to the psychiatris or the psychologist. It's almost as if people need to have a disorder to blame their behavior on.

Whenever it's exam time for my Abnormal Psychology class and I pull out my DSM-IV-TR--the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders--I can't help but feel like this is a little overboard. Sure, there are people who are legitimately mentally ill, I don't deny that, but there is a fine line between being unique and quirky and being mentally ill. I swear, there is a disorder for every strange behavior on earth. If I got a diagnosis for every quirk I had, my psychiatrist would have enough money to retire after an hour long session with me. Then I would be taking a bottle of pills everyday. Pull out the Benzodiazepines, the Thorazine, the Monoamine Oxidase Inhibitors, the Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, get the pharmacist pumped and ready for a lifetime of business from me!

Maybe in a few months when I'm strung out on Benzos and Opioids I can go see a new psychiatrist in rehab. Let me tell you, The Green Generation is bullshit. We are the Blue Generation. Our moto is "Drown yourself in meds to get you out of bed". Feeling sad? There's a pill for that. Can't sleep? There's a pill for that. Loss of sexual appetite? Ask your doctor about those pills you saw on TV.

For more information, see your doctor.

Sometimes, lists can kill you. Plans can kill you. Some people can live by not planning and predicting the future. People with type A personalities can’t help but figure out their to-do lists, some for the day, and some for the near future and some for the future that is far out of sight. Alongside the detailed lists usually comes a person who over thinks everything. The person who can’t do anything without first thinking about what reaction might come out of their action.

Unfortunately, I am unable to live my life without a list. A friend and I finished talking about dealing with things that are out of our control. Then we got onto the topic of summer. I explained that I am going to have a great carefree summer; I said I was going to tan, live out of a beach bag, and make a couple bad decisions. Then I noticed a smirk slowly appear on his face which turned into a giggle. He noticed the confused look on my face and then told me that I had already planned out my bad decisions. I planned to be spontaneous.

I didn’t think about it like that at first but I realized he was absolutely right. I can’t help but make a plan for everything in my life. Without my cell phone calendar on hand, I think I might fall in a catatonic state. I have everything planned down to the last second. I make to-do lists that cover everything right down to sleep. I could say I do this because I like bringing order to chaos but I don’t know if that’s actually accurate. Maybe it’s not so much that I like order in my life, maybe I am just trying not to mess anything up. By knowing my every move before I make it, I can figure out what the consequence may be. Theoretically, this isn’t a bad thing. But do my lists interfere with my ability to have fun?

This kind of reminds me of a song called Got My List from an obscure independent movie called Dakota Skye. There’s a phrase in the song that plays over and over in my head like a broken record. One more day we’ve made it through now, got my list, got my list. I like how that sounds, and while I appreciate its attitude, I don’t think it quite applies to me. I can’t take life a day at a time.

Character flaw? Probably. It makes me think that I should change it. But, once again, I’m using that dirty word. I am planning to change that part of myself. I hate that it has become a habit that I can’t kick.

I like to think writing is like making a sandwich. Begin with a blank sheet of paper, proceed to fill it with the meat, or the subject of the piece, and then add the lettuce, which is like the garnish of the piece, then the author adds in their own personal flavor by adding in some condiments. The beauty of the extra spices comes from knowing that their spices are unique. No one will be able to recreate their exact recipe because it reflects their life experiences. Creative writing is made up of a simple subject that is quickly turned into something so different, the author marinates in the subject matter until it is suitable for their taste. We can experience, and I use the word experience with purpose, a piece of literary subject matter that many other authors have written about before, and still be able to find the beauty in the literary art because of it has sheer originality that makes readers want to hear more of.

I have begun writing a piece without knowing what I was writing about. I have written sonnets that start by describing food then turn into a narrative about finding inspiration for new thoughts. I have begun journal entries by describing how I have nothing to say, then, without my knowledge, turn into an in-depth piece about finding beauty in things I hate. If I had known I could write without knowing my subject before, I think my creative abilities would have developed sooner. I would never have thought that writing without a vision could turn into the best piece of writing I’ve ever produced. I never would have thought the ramblings of my mind would actually be published in a newspaper. But now I understand that the blathering in my mind is actually the best raw material I could ever hope to discover.

One of the best things about writing is switching to the role of the reader. There is nothing better than making a gourmet sandwich, then taking a big bite out of it. We write and we rewrite, but not after reading it first. It is all about the taste testing. We may feel the need to write and entire book full of ideas, sleep on it, and then decide we’d rather have a nice bonfire using those burned out old ideas of the day before. We might write it all out, feel overconfident about the piece, show it to an outsider and after gauging their reaction, and make another trip outside for another bonfire. There is nothing wrong with doing so; it is creative expression in movement. Sometimes it may take a wrong turn in Albuquerque, but there is no harm done. It is simply a lesson learned. Life is to be lived, felt, loved and explored. Life is meant to be shared, if not shared with other people; it should be shared on paper. From paper, it can go anywhere, to anyone, with no limitations.

My entire body is encased in ice. I can feel the cold, wet, densely packed white liquid-like substance absorbing into my clothing. I wiggle my limbs in an attempt to create a simple yet unique piece of art. Having no artistic ability, drawing inside the lines seems like a safe way to go. I push away with my arms and legs enough of this cold substance to consider my masterpiece finished. But the toughest part of my task is to peel myself away from my creation leaving just enough of myself behind, but not leaving a footprint that is too big. I finger-paint two little dots with a sly looking line beneath them at the top of my Sistine Chapel; as though it were the final cherry on top of a decadent sundae, or the laminate that is spread on top of the final coat of paint. My snow angel has a personality, and I watch her as she greets the cars that whip past her on the street.

The scrumptious texture of its chocolate coat

With crunchy pieces nestled through the bar

Delicious heaven makes my taste buds jolt

Its timeless taste is sure to make it far.


I find it too alluring to avoid

These sweets will threaten to intoxicate

Big doses make you feel quite paranoid

And make your tummy quake and ache and ache.


Do not miss out on this fantastic treat

It may not be around for very long

Imaginations need something to eat

Feed mine, it needs to sing a different song.


My mind is hungry for a brand new thought,

A novel thought, one that cannot be bought.