The Fifteen Year-Old Philosopher

It's Saturday afternoon and I'm sitting here attempting to write my first official blog.  You might ask how it's possible for a soon-to-be 26 year-old to never have been exposed to this world of online communities before now.  And, unfortunately, the only answer I have to proffer is that I just simply never had an interest in it.  I, like many others, didn't see why anyone would be interested in what I have to say.  But now that I'm here, I guess there's not much left to do than introduce myself to you.

While mulling over what to write about for my first blog, I thought I'd take a walk down memory lane.  That lane ended up being a stack of journal entries which began at the young age of fourteen.  Ah, fourteen.  You know, the age where everything around you is awkward and you hate your siblings. Your parents, no matter what they have to say, are always being unreasonable. You're rebellious. And your body has decided to abandon you and any hope you may have had of ever being socially accepted.  Yes, fourteen...what a lovely age to be.

What better time than puberty to bring you all into my life?  So, here is a piece I wrote while at my high school Freshman Retreat, the day after my fifteenth birthday.  We were asked to write what our "oil" would be.  The problem is, I don't remember if this was an oil and water-type of situation or more of a "the oil that lights your ever-glowing candle" situation.  I decided to share this particular piece with you because not much has changed in the ten years since I wrote it.  I still wonder the same things and have the same ideas about love and friendship.  I still have the same difficulties I had at fifteen of leaving the past in the past and trying to enjoy the present.  Maybe this trip down memory lane just goes to show that while my situations and circumstances may have changed over time, I remain, at the core, the same...

November 3, 1997

My oil would have to be the love I have for others.  It sounds conceited, but it's true.  I have a hard time truly getting mad at someone.  Loving everyone isn't necessarily a good thing.  It's very hard for me sometimes because I don't or can't understand the things that people do.  For instance, I don't understand how someone can make fun of another who is less advantaged just to make him/herself happy.  To me, that's just unexplainable.  It's kind of like someone who loves to swim and someone who hates to swim.  Both sides don't understand why the other does or doesn't like to.

Sometimes I do look back on things and wonder why it happened.  Maybe I didn't love them enough.  Was I mean to them?  Or I look at what I'm doing now.  Why is it so hard if I love so much?  Is it because I love that it is hard?  I can't honestly say that I love everyone.  I don't dislike them, I just don't cope with what they're trying to say because our view points are completely different.  Even a more simple question like...why am I writing this?  I know how I feel.  Maybe I'm writing it because I can look at it later and see my thoughts and feelings written down and understand them more or even write more.  Some things are unexplainable.  Is this for God to read?  I thought God knew what was going on in our minds.  Why does my strength in love have to be a weakness in everything else?  No matter what, I will always have to come back and read this, but the questions will still be unanswered.

Why can't I find who my true friends are until I go away and come back?  I wish my life were not so filled with problems and questions.  Why do there have to be people who don't understand that when you love somebody, your love for them never dies?  When they stop loving you, you don't necessarily stop loving them?  People give me such a hard time with that.  Our love may not be as strong as it was before, but it will never die completely.

I should not contemplate on things of the past, for they only depress me more and more.  I would like to be able to be happy in the present, but it is so hard when the past isn't finished.  The future is a mystery, while the past is sometimes an unsolved mystery.

The present is just a mere image.