by Stephanie Maria Hinojosa
It is the 17th of March, year 2017, and I am 23 years old.
The current state of the world at present is questionable.
We have what many refer to as a "Cheeto" in the office serving as our president.
He is a fool but he is aimful and when one if foolishly aimful things can go terribly wrong.
We are awaiting to see how this one will crash and burn.
When he does we will watch joyously.
I am a Senior at The University of Texas at El Paso.
I study English and American Literature and I naturally reject what strangers try to convince me of.
It is a strange time to be alive.
I could've been something great like a lawyer or a teacher, an astronomer or even a cook but instead I chose to be a writer.
A writer who does not like to write a damn thing.
If I'm honest with you it is not that I lack the talent to write, no that is not the case at all, I am confident I can write whatever vision I conjure.
The problem is that I am afraid of what will come out when I do.
I've been told by others that I can be aggressive, aggressive for a girl.
Of course now is the time, more than ever, to embrace such aggressiveness but I truly do fear myself.
I fear if I cultivate my fire it will get out of hand and burn everything to the ground, which is a disaster I wish to avoid for it has happened before.
Everyone encourages you to light the world a flame in the name of passion but what they forget to tell you is how hard it is for everything to grow back after the damage is done.
It takes months for even the smallest leaves to peek out of a toasted tree trunk, it takes a long time to heal after burning.
Yet I naturally burn even if I don't exercise my creativity.
I prefer the waves of the sea when they are crashing and I like high winds that move me in its direction.
I like chaos….
…no not chaos,
I like action….
Yes, I like the action of life.
Aside from fearing life, I fear a greater thing which is why I'm writing to you, to whom it may concern.
I am afraid that fearing myself will keep me from living my life to its fullest potential.
Furthermore I am afraid I will not live enough.
Now here is where you lean back in your chair and say, "she's thinking too much about life," and you're right,
I know I am that is why I'm writing to you, to whom it may concern, to confide in you my fears.
In retrospect I know I will be okay.
I'm just afraid, but who isn't, right?