Every birthday wish and shooting star from when I was 5 until when I turned 12 was wasted on asking to never grow up, never get older. And every year, my height increased, my body changed and no one noticed that I was secretly praying for the child in me, and in all of us, to stay.

I wished for what I knew I couldn't possibly have because I knew, even at five, that old age would be heartbreaking, terrifying and more painful than any skidded knee or torn elbow. I didn't want to sit in a wheelchair being pushed around by cruel nurses through dilapidated, off-creme-colored hallways. I didn't want to experience both the emotional and physical pain of lost friends, family and sanity. I wouldn't want a person to pass by me, casually glance over and interpret my expressionless, wrinkled, tired face and sullen, dim eyes to mean that I was simply tired and didn't mind my state. I would want them to know that my entire body and mind was raging against the plague that tormented my body, that I wasn't simply a flaccid, bored, dull thing honkered against a metallic moving chair. I had a soul; a lost one, perhaps, but a real one which was fighting desperately to get out.

As I started to get older, I realized that what I was asking for would require more than a miracle; it would require suicide, something that was never an option for me.

So even now, as I slowly age, year by year, I'm terrified of what old age means. I hear the colliquialisms people throw my way, "With old age comes wisdom", "You will grow, learn and become your own master", and mostly, people tell me of the wonder of childbirth and old age with your significant other.

I don't believe you.

I think I will wake up one day and hate it all. I will envy the beauty I lost, which some other unknowing girl found. I wlil hate all those who surround me for their inability to see the pain I'm in, to see how much I wish to be agile, passionate, and earth-changing. I will spend hours preparing for the day...hours that would have taken minutes when I was young.

I will sit on my porch looking out at the young knowing far more than they. And I will envy them. For if I could be young again, I would. If I could re-learn my lesssons, I would. If I could live and never lose my friends to old age, I would. But I won't because I must admit that I will eventually have to be old.

I had to admit to myself, at twelve years of age, that there is no star to wish away old age. There is no birthday wish that will stop every birthday thereafter. There is no hope or faith to cling to which will end the cycle of pain and knowledge that proceeds.

What do I look forward to most about getting older?

It's what I began to wish for after I turned twelve. I wished for the insight to change the world before old age crept into the tunnels of my mind and stole the life my veins had left.

The necessity of home skills.

I barely know how to cook. I mess up my laundry almost every time. I can't sew up a torn pant leg. I don't know how to eradicate a stain. I would probably clean the floor incorrectly--if I ever tried to do it. I don't know what postage is required to send a letter. I've never assembled anything in my life. My organization skills are based on my mother first organizing the thing I own and then I follow that system. When a coupon says buy 3 for $10, I don't know if that means you must buy 3 to get the entire discount or if you only buy 1, the price will be discounted according to the ratio.

I've depended on my hard-working parents my whole life, and now, I underestimate the importance of my mother's skills. I live on my own, and yet, I still come home to her with laundry, torn clothing, an appetite for real food and stained shoes.

I wish I could force myself to learn but if my mother is always there, then my mind sees no need...because I'm naive.

JAVA/HTML
RUSSIAN and SPANISH
How to stop my leg-shaking
To Cook
To Organize my time better
To learn what my true passion in life is

..all in one day, preferably. ;D

I remember someone, somewhere that was very old telling me the most important thing at his age is to never have regrets. It wasn't a question but it made me think about my life. I was probably around 8 or 9 years old but since then I've lived my life as best I can without regret. As high school hit, I've racked up a couple. But I'm doing my best to make up for those now.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ChtL5yUuSVY&feature=related


Listen to it. If you haven't seen the movie, it is beautiful, somber and forceful; This song sent chills down my arms. Kracata.

While not all of us can hold jobs in an area we love, we can certainly spend our spare minutes, hours and days working on those delights and passions. Yes, you are always welcome to volunteer by giving food to the poor or investing money into an NGO but you are not using a true talent in these actions. You are using your ability to love, no doubt, but if you enjoyed something, I imagine the impact your could have by bettering your passion (in spite of the fact that you are unable, at the moment, to pursue it due to money constraints) would be magnificent.

 If you've ever heard of the janitor from the Bronx who played music so beautifully, people believed he had to have a different mind than any human. A man with no formal education who simply loved to play. And he touched hearts and minds; not by spending his time catering to others but by forcing himself to be better, to being the best during his hours of leisure from mopping university halls. And once he was, he shared it with the world. I wish we could all aspire to the same goal. If you truly want to give a gift, give your own personal gift--the gift you work years and years to perfect until it is a memorable, unique, awe-inspiring piece of art.

Nature's greatest hardship. It starves. It shrivels. It is engulfed in white, blinding powder, which it can never truly shake off. The sunlight is hardly visible beyond the placating swarm of little white men. Struggle as she may against the winds brought on by the force and exhuberance of her invader, her leaves, trunk, blades and all her defenses are torn down, crushed under the weight of millions of ruthless invaders. She waits. She waits. She waits. And then, after years, after dreaming of awaking to see her children bloom, after crying under gray, empty skies, she awakens to a milky spool of sunlight spilling in, to the gusto of the wind lessening into a biding breeze, to the little white men's retreat into her roots.