A Helping Hand

A long time ago, I wrote a little snippet about vices. I don’t remember what I was referring to, but reading it now, I can see that some things about myself haven’t changed, except maybe I have a few more vices.

            What I wanted to address was my ending point of a ‘helping hand’. I’m the kind of person who likes to be independent. It’s probably a stupid notion, but I don’t like asking people to help me if I can help it.

            Relying on people, in short, is very difficult for me.

            So why bring up the point of letting others help me? Sometimes, my walls inch down a little bit and I let someone in, let someone help me. But the moment I feel vulnerable or hurt, I rebuild them in an instant.

            I don’t think I’ve ever truly let anyone in, not anyone in my friend groups and certainly not anyone in my family. Trusting someone takes months, years, and even then, I find it hard to do that.

            I’m starting a new life right now, over a month into it actually, and I’ve made an effort to let people get to know me. Is it working? Somewhat. But at the same time… I still do what I’ve always done. If there’s a chance that I might be hurt, I shield myself so that it’s like I’m made out of stone.

            I can hide it, definitely. I can act happy on the outside. But then in the end, what’s the point if nobody ever knows how I really feel?

            I just wish this bothered me enough so that I could have the motivation to change it.

Poetry. Yes, Poetry.

Because my writing just always revolves around what's happening in my life, I want to write about poetry. I don't know why, but the lessons I have in AP Lit always has a way of making its way into my life, even when I don't think about it.

When I put my mind to it and I'm just... in the mood, I guess... I actually really, really love it. How does it even do the things it does? If I were a poet, I would want to be famous, just so I could make people feel the way I feel when I read it.

I'm not saying I read poetry for fun. That's not me, mostly because I'm too busy to sit down and do that. But last night, spontaneously, I was working my butt off to finish my homework (due to a weekend of procrastinating and, um, shopping), and my sister comes in saying she needs help with poetry analysis. Since we're learning it in AP Lit and all, I got excited about helping her.

I read the poem...

And I didn't understand it. At all. But I wasn't turned away from it. In fact, my confusion was intriguing, made me want to explore it some more, made me actually use the skills I had taken away from school. When I kinda sort of figured out the meaning, I fell in love with the poem, because the extended metaphor--so complicated and simple at the same time--blew my mind.

I don't want to get into what the poem was about. That would take way too long. But reading a poem and realizing its meaning (all on my own, no help from my teacher) always makes me excited. Maybe I can't do it again, but the poem, the timing--everything was perfect.

It kind of makes me want to become a poet.