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| [ | music | | | Cranberries, The - Just My Imaginiation | ] |
So, this is my first entry made while I’m at UVA. What does that tell you that it takes about a month to get enough time to make a quick post. Right now, かわばたとおえのために読まなくちゃいけない、けど。。。したくない!!
中国語をインスタルしたばっかり。I hope that makes sense, I haven’t used “bakkari” in a while.
Anyways, so yesterday (18th) I was walking through Newcomb to get to Clemons library to watch Hawai’ian movies (gr… dont even get me started), and by the elevator I saw three or four girls/women (same age as me or younger… Girls?) and at the other end, a bunch of about 15 girls. Then, one said “Okay, just say your name, and a little bit about yourself, and then walk”
And it was a runway audition.
Suddenly, as I watched the young girl (and here, I start to date myself, feeling as it my college life is already near its end; I am old and past my prime truly) “strut” down the clean tile hallway and waited for the elevator, I was confronted with another life.
What if I had stayed with my agent? What if I would have pursued my modeling career and accepted the invitations to pageants? What if I would have placed studies second to vanity? Would I be rich and famous now? Could that be me on runways somewhere? (Surely, I wouldn’t be in a dim hallway by an elevator, but I have not even that now)
It was like a light was shining on me-a spotlight-and then it passed over me. I could have been something like this. I felt this odd swelling at the back of my throat, and doubted the choices I had made in life.
Who said that I could make my own choices anyways? Why?
But then again, I’m better now, right? I’m a plain person with no side-story. I just go to school like everyone else. If my past had been different, things would not be what they are now, no? I would not have the life I have.
I sound as if I am narrating my life. It’s not a story…
Is that why I think that when I walk while listening to music that it is a soundtrack to my life? Do I want things to be like the movies?
I need to live.
生かなくちゃいけないんだよ。












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