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December 8, 2002

I had a strange dream, I realized in waking. Sunday. I had slept in too late again. Well, it looks like I haven't earned freedom today so it's at the books. I hate waking up just in time for lunch. It's a little frustrating, working on the weekend. I guess it has to be done sometime, and it's just a result of procrastination during the week. Well, if I get caught up today, I won't have to worry about it later. I would get more behind if, say, I was to have the entire day to myself. I may have chosen the latter, had it been my choice. I need to learn more discipline. If only I could concentrate harder on a single subject at a time without all these inspirations and goings-on around me, I would be a much better student. It seems I must develop these qualities on my own.

Yet, my dreams and inspirations are what keep me being myself. It's not my fault that all the best ideas visit me while I'm trying to concentrate on algebra or environmental science. I got into some deep thinking later on about what I really want to do in life. Only one thing dominates all my decisions: I have to be able to write. Whether I am a successful attorney, a wealthy businesswoman; I still mustwrite. The profession of my choice, if I could make enough money at it to support myself, is to be an author. Published; and if not famous, somewhat renown. I fear, as children often do, that my parents have chosen the path for me and make some life decisions for me. I suppose I am to inherit the business and live my adult life with no time to myself or any left over for my husband and children. I sigh, thinking those dismal three words: "Just like them…"

No. I want a life for myself how I want to live. Yes, this requires finishing school, graduating college, but I'm not going to build my entire existence around making money. It's just not worth it. Money is a necessity, and a good supply of it is nice, but, as I said, it's not worth all the sacrifice.

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December 10, 2002

I believe I was writing in a bad mood Sunday. I need to refrain from the nasty habit. That is a prime example of writing with depression. I ought to know better than to have a pen in hand when I'm sad or angry. I tend to over-illustrate. I'm not going to think about those dismal thoughts today. I'm going to focus for once. Please, don't faint yet. I did manage to finish my homework Sunday and had more free time on my hands than I knew what to do with. It rained all day yesterday and looks like it shall do the same today; or at least I hope it won't.

Work is becoming fairly simpler as it is all laid out, planned and organized. I even notice a change in my penmanship when I'm more relaxed. I've found I can be a genius when given room, and math doesn't seem so difficult anymore. What bliss there is in organization. Fancy me saying that.

Today at 2:30 I had an appointment with Dr. Moore. No, he specializes not in physical body, nor much with the mind. You see, this doctor deals with matters of the soul. He is my piano and voice teacher. A doctorate in music. Imagine that.

Well, I'm on to finish my other subjects. It will be expected that I shall finish them soon, then clean house. I shall do as my heart desires until 11 PM, when I shall ready myself for sleep. A schedule isn't so bad after all. It's actually relieving, not having to watch the clock every second, worried about getting things done in time. Why was I ever so afraid of organizing my life? Was it the artist's mind? Perhaps a disease of the teenager? Whatever the reason, it was silly and immature to be afraid of it.

If I'm going to grow up, I guess I'm going to have to get used to it. It's not like it's a hard thing to get used to, it's simply just new. More responsibility, more work, more organization and planning and calculating. These are the things I will need later on in life. I guess, now, finally, I'm growing up. Isn't it scary?