"personal truth"

I was in Ithaca once as a freshman with c and some old friends who have grown up and gone away since then, and we went to a coffee shop where a hippie woman gave us free mate and talked to us about personal truth. I can't remember exactly what she said, but Oedipus Rex was brought up in our argument against her, and we thought we were so brilliant because we had read it and argued circles around this woman, who was illogical, but just had a different opinion than we did.  We thought we knew so much, about how Oedipus' personal truth led to the truth, and how it affected his world.  Years later, in our theory of knowledge class, we were told that there was no such thing as personal truth; there is only the truth, and then there are our perceptions of the truth.  I personally don't see the difference, aren't personal truth and perception the same thing? Right now everything looks darker to me, and I am "perceiving" that we aren't talking, and I'm perceiving that I'm drawing away from everyone, even though that's not what I want, or need.  My personal truth is that I'm losing them, all of them, and it's my own fault. 

ode to d

My brother made me a bracelet so that I wouldn't forget him when I go to college. I thought that it was sweet, but kind of silly. Why would I forget him; he's my brother. He's one of my best friends. Unlike other people that come and go, he'll always be around to make me bracelets out of unevenly-sized clay beads, break out into harmonies, and talk about Harry Potter with me. I'll miss having someone around to make fun of for being obsessed with Apple products and not doing things in a logical order.

math doesn't like me

For once, math is not a codename for a person or action or event, math is what it is, and studying for my math test tomorrow is not working out. It's so frustrating-why don't I understand this? I thought I was supposed to be good at math once upon a time.

the "good" old days

I'm taking a break from writing my college essays. It's too exhausting. I'm writing about when I was ten, how I would sneak into the basement and read snatches of pages of my mother's copy of Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates, and how it caused me to stay sane during a time when everything was insane; about how those girls could be powerful even when I could not be, and how those fragments of a novel saved my life. I'm worried that it's too personal-it's probably not what anybody is looking for. I'm pretty sure it counts for something though, even though I'm not writing about how the book wanted me to save pandas or attain world peace.

Thinking about those days brought up a lot of memories that I had forgotten, or at least tried to forget, but I feel like this Foxfire essay has to be written, it's been whispering in my ear, asking me to write it for years, and now I have the opportunity. Even if I don't send it out, even if it's not perfect, it will be written for myself, so that I can never forget that Foxfire burns and burns.