My Writing Capabilities
My writing capabilities, when writing about things like emotions, fall within the limits of those that I love. I could write novels about my mother’s strength or my sister’s dedication or even one about my cat’s eating habits, but when I’ve been asked to write about myself, I never can. For a lack of a more scholarly word choice, I see difficulty in talking about myself or my qualities without feeling as if I have an extremely inflated sense of self. I tend to keep to myself and while to my innermost social circle it may sound insane, I had a tough transition to coming to terms with who I am during a time when my mother was absent due to illness and I felt misguided. I can recall several instances in which I would stare myself down in the mirror
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The other day I was getting perked up to go out with some friends and as most seventeen year olds I was caking on the makeup and blending my eyeshadow, I looked at myself and grunted. I became irate because my look was not turning out well. Angrily, I flung my brush towards the ground and I kept glaring at myself asking where I’d gone wrong. It took a second but, I had an epiphany, kind of like when you get older and you realize the amount of family drama you had been oblivious too for so long, it hit me like a slap to my caked up face. My mind flashed back to my freshmen year when I had not even an iota of how to draw on my eyebrows and I chuckled because I’d realized how far my skillset had evolved since then. I continued blending, and I found myself reminiscing on a time in my life when I absolutely despised the way I looked and my “talentless” self. Makeup became an outlet for me; it was what set me apart from the other girls. For most people it isn’t anything remotely important but, I became immersed in a community of people who understood where I was coming from. There came a time when I began to look at makeup as an art form. My mom always says how she doesn’t understand my obsession but, what she doesn’t know is how wearing sparkly gold eyelids
The other day I was getting perked up to go out with some friends and as most seventeen year olds I was caking on the makeup and blending my eyeshadow, I looked at myself and grunted. I became irate because my look was not turning out well. Angrily, I flung my brush towards the ground and I kept glaring at myself asking where I’d gone wrong. It took a second but, I had an epiphany, kind of like when you get older and you realize the amount of family drama you had been oblivious too for so long, it hit me like a slap to my caked up face. My mind flashed back to my freshmen year when I had not even an iota of how to draw on my eyebrows and I chuckled because I’d realized how far my skillset had evolved since then. I continued blending, and I found myself reminiscing on a time in my life when I absolutely despised the way I looked and my “talentless” self. Makeup became an outlet for me; it was what set me apart from the other girls. For most people it isn’t anything remotely important but, I became immersed in a community of people who understood where I was coming from. There came a time when I began to look at makeup as an art form. My mom always says how she doesn’t understand my obsession but, what she doesn’t know is how wearing sparkly gold eyelids