An Autobiography of No Point

What is there for me to say? I can feel things to say, but I cannot catch them and lock them into words. I guess, for that reason, I’m not writer. I can write words, but that isn’t the same thing. I often think myself an artist, but that doesn’t depict who I am in this moment. I have something I want to say, but it will not mean what I intend until you, the reader, know who I am, so I will begin with that.

I live in Oklahoma City, a flat, republican place. I go school, learning things for the grades and therefore, through an endless series of proving myself worthy in the form of national exams, am secured a position in the American realm that will keep my family fed (because it is assumed that I will have children and lead a good, American life). I feel bound to tell you that I hold myself exempt from the blindness that is required of all true Americans. I intend to escape the luscious ignorance America breeds within its borders.

My life so far has been one of a classic, upper-middle class student. Like the other youths, I am strangely selfish and I have the luxury of scorning the perfect life I lead simply because of its perfection. I have a need to note specifics, though they will strike you and any sensible person as dull and pointless:

My mother is an artist, currently building a series inspired by the death of her father. Her hands are an endless source of creation and guidance to me. They define what mine would do if I didn’t have the eternally unsatisfied and unfulfilled brain that I have. I couldn’t live the life she lives and be happy, but it is wonderful to daydream about what my hands could do once they became as broken in as hers. My father, contrastingly, is a health-care lawyer. He isn’t one of the lawyers that are in the business for its wealth, but rather because he loves it. Frankly, I find love for the law an unfathomable source of confusion, because I resent it so, but I respect that it’s his passion. It is his art, strange as that may be.

I have one older brother, who is as much an idol to me as he is a book of how not to live life. He will graduate from college this spring and he hasn’t the faintest idea where he will go from there. Home again, I suspect.

I, in contrast, hope to be self-supporting as soon as possible. I want to travel with my closest friend to the Latin Americas, the wild Latin Americas, and experience. I want to live a life that I find meaningful. Everyone has something different that makes them feel fulfilled, and, apart from my creations, I have yet to find it. As soon as I have the age with which to escape, I will go searching.

I could continue on and on about my petty life. I could tell you about my art, my odd connection with the local Jewish community, my self-pitying boyfriend of 7 past months, the person who opened my eyes, or the person of my current fury, sympathy, and want, but they all seem to be finicky details about someone you care nothing for. I will save those monotonous accounts for another time. Now for the things I have wanted to say:
Wait, I have forgotten my original intent in writing this.