I am the Ugly Smoke on the Horizon.

“You know something? I think I’ve reached a point in my life where a phase I was going through is over. It’s a little disappointing. The ‘phase’ I was in let me write creatively, draw unique things, think ideas from different perspectives. Now, I feel pretty average. There is nothing wrong with being average, it’s just weird to suddenly see something one day and wake up the next day seeing something else.

Sometimes, I miss that something.”

That is the ending paragraph to a private blog I have. One where I talk about shallow things or nothing at all.

I go to school earlier then most kids because I fit in seven classes a day instead of six, we call it zero hour. During winter, we don’t have things like daylight savings time or anything, so I would walk to my bus stop in the frigid wind and I would turn on my ipod and just sit there, waiting.

Sometimes, I wished I could sit there in the cold forever.

It’s kind of like right now only better. Quite music, a night sky, and room to think. All the space in the world to think. Then something to remind you you’re still needed on Earth. The cold wind biting my cheeks and the concrete rough against my hands and uncomfortable to sit on. Now I see the dust, still. Look closer though, a whole other world of dust mites and other small things.

In four years, you won’t catch me around her watching dust pile up. You won’t catch me up at that ungodly hour. You’ll see me in a car behind the steering wheel, you’ll see me in an office with heaters, but no instrument leaning against me. You’ll see me without a overstuffed backpack and nothing spelling out the words cross country.

You might not even see my face, determined to never stop, showing all your teeth in a grimace, saying that this was tough.

Mister Time you are so cruel. You spread out the year ever so slowly but you keep track of when it is going to end, then even you become eager for this torture to end and you speed it up, only make the torture come all at once as us, and we don’t know what to do. So, we’ll run.

I don’t know why I run.

It’s the same feeling as the bus stop. No rush rush rush push push push for no avail. No, instead you can just feel. Maybe, it’s really living.

I ran at Cienega Hill, maybe a different name to you, and I found a bridge. I tunnel. Well constructed but hidden and made out of wine racks. It reminded me of my childhood days and it’s someplace I want to visit, imagine that!

I need to get out of here - here being this routine.

What would I do without this routine? Have adventures. The question that really needs answering is if those adventures will lead to success. I would like to think my routine does or if that’s just the pressure made from the routine.

I hate school. I hate grades.

I hate them telling you it’s okay not to get As, but the moment you don’t, the get dissapointed and say you need to study study study as if that’s not what you aren’t already telling yourself. It bothers me more that they don’t trust me to want to bring them up, don’t trust that I can. I don’t need help and honestly, even if I have As, I don’t much like talking about it. You are the routine that grinds and grinds against me, and you know what? High school seems to be dumbing down all of us.

I keep caring for silly things like who is dating who. Girls hug eachother because they’ve been separated for 12 hours max. Screaming OH MY GAWD when I am standing right there. Then I’ve seen those smart kids stop caring and just accepting the easy way out. I’d do that too, stop taking honors, but the easier the class is the harder it is to get a good great because I’ve got some mild ADD or some priority issues where if it isn’t hard, why should this homework help me? I can’t stand some of these ignorant kids though. I’m probably the ignorant one but my loves, there is more to life then high school social life. It’s not that that’s all they talk about, it’s how they talk about it and for once I want someone to ask me how and why instead of who and what.

I’ve been tempted to just go to the library during lunch and find me own little corner, but that’s where some kids play video games and then that article that said antisocial kids are less intelligent makes me worry. Though right now I sound petty, I don’t think you can deny you’ve felt like me before with just a different plotline.

I can’t believe I’ve given up jazz next year for some AP class and have to take symphonic band.

I can’t live without my jazz, it’s my creativity outlet and my class where no one conforms. I know the band director is just happy we show up, this group is different. We do what we want and we play what sounds good to us. We just like music. It’s hard to explain I guess, but it’s the personality I like. I suppose if you look at my outwardly, I am the symphonic band kid, who just plays the notes on the paper, but I want nothing more then to be the rebel who makes up her own notes because it’s fun. The symphonic band kid who admires the jazz kids. No actually, I’m a jazz kid trying to prove something.

That sounds familiar.

Haha, I remember. They say that female trumpet players always have something to prove.

What if I wasn’t a trumpet player? What if I didn’t play music?

I’d be different just because the people I’ve met on my musical career has shaped me. I’d still be me though, I’d be trying something out and no doubt I couldn’t stand playing the flute, but I could play the violin, because I’ve seen the sweat drip off the string players forehead, like how the trumpet player’s face turns red and he shakes. I have seen the flute player bow her head but the trumpet and the string player, they fight it. The sax? He simply rides it.

At competition the famous man told us to simply play with passion and if we played it perfectly, he wouldn’t call us good, because if music was perfect why don’t we just play the machine notes, unfeeling. We wouldn’t. Concerts we go to see the musician sing, to feel the vibration.

Brassline they keep fighting us to be perfect, I want it to sound good, yes, but I don’t want to be a machine. I think we all play like a machine and we are so much a machine, it sucks. We have nothing. We aren’t great.

It’s okay by me, I just want them to be proud of our hard work, because brassline is kicking my butt.

I wish I was a dancer. Her body is her passion and she moves it to a false heart beat.

Thump

Thump

Thump

This is how the beat drops..

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