Ella Peirce

The beginning of junior year captured in time, though this column and these photos.

As I sit in my bed, surrounded by a cloudy haze of vivacity, opalescent clouds swirling at the foot of my bed, slowly ascending onto my comforter, I’m reminded of the times that led me to where I am.

I’m reminded of all of the times those same clouds were not so beautiful.

The times they were dark and stormy, when they showed signs of drought, and when they created hailstorms and hurricanes.

But I’m also reminded of the times they parted to let me peek through—probably because those are my favorites.

Back then, I would climb onto the windowsill, staring at the sun despite warnings. I loved the time of the day when the rays only flooded in from the top right corner of my window, just like my yellow crayon drawings on kids’ menus and coloring books. With the window as my canvas, I dreamed in sky blue and bright forest green.

I never drew clouds, though.

White paper and a lack of white crayons can be blamed, but I think I was just ungrateful.

Without the clouds and the thunder and the rain—without the droughts—life would be all too temperate. Too moderate. Too plain.

I’m not meant to lay in the sun, alone, turning lonely, with only my thoughts to occupy me. I’m meant to be where I am, with gray stress clouds around my head and crisp mornings, and the fulfilling clicking of my keyboard keys. I’m meant to be always striving, always reaching. I hate to admit it, but I know it’s true.

Which brings me back to my all-too-colorful life, with ripped seams and colors bleeding carelessly into one another.

It’s like every blink is anew like every word means something.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m a pessimist, and I’m anxious, and the lingering apprehension never leaves; it only bounces from muse to muse. So when I say these words, I mean them wholeheartedly.

I think this year will be good.

The swirling, dreamy clouds won’t stay forever, but when they part, the sun won’t burn me like all those times before. I’ll manipulate its rays into spotlights, letting the light in.

In due time.

I’m grateful for the clouds. They’ll part when they’re ready—when I’m ready.

Until then, I’ll always be a little bit stressed, and I’ll always be a little bit tired. A simple perspective on the cold, hard truths that I would be a fool to deny.

Dearest reader, I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Or maybe you’ll see it in the clouds first.