The day my creativity died

High school is a time of experimentation for many teens.  Experimenting with relationships, drugs, boundaries, reckless driving, and sneaking in and out of places they aren't suppose to be are just a handful of the many options for adolescents when picking and choosing where to show their "autonomy."  And as bad as all that teenage self-expression garbage can be, it's often amplified by college.

I, too, practiced my rights as a juvenile to say and do stupids things but in a very "Molly Morman" sort of way.  In the social circles I gravitated towards rebellion was driving a mini-van with the windows rolled down while singing along with Kelly Clarkson as loudly as our vocal cords would allow.  Armed with sketchbooks and CD's of Turkish music (more rebellion) we got high off skittles and pixie sticks (taken orally, of course).  We'd drive to the mall and try on clearance prom dresses that were a little too short or a little too low, but a lot too ugly.  We'd giggle in the dressing rooms, embarrassed and unwilling to actually emerge from the tiny mirrored stalls.

I was scared of everything and nothing all at once.  I'd shake for solo clarinet performances and almost have to wear Depends to read Shakespeare aloud in front my equally awkward peers.  But I would write abstract pieces about demons and shape-shifters and fireflies.  I wrote poems about loving, hating. . . coping.  And I enjoyed writing about topics of which I knew little, like abuse and death, just to test the limits of my understanding and imagination.

I know it sounds boring, but it was daring for me and I felt pretty good doing it.

Today, taking a chance is cleaning the kitchen in the morning instead of the evening, and I miss the days of feeling just a little wild.  I'm twenty-two and I feel like forty-four.  I need to shake things up to feel young again and plan something spontaneous! Wait. . .