For Me

 Hi. It's been a minute.

I guess I've been struggling to write something that hasn't already been said, by me or otherwise. The last fifteen blogposts I've written have all been about leaving Troy behind, and I'm running out of ways to express that same feeling, despite the dozens of shades I feel it in. 

In May, my old high school gives graduating seniors this All Night Party -- they blow our entire senior budget on turning the gym into a real-life casino, and let us spend one last night in the building we had called ours but no longer can. Around 3 a.m., I realized that I would never spend so many consecutive hours in this run-down building ever again. I realized that the next time I entered, I would have to check-in with the front office as a visitor.

I think we, as humans, desperately want everything to fall apart without us. I see, on occasion, pictures of my underclassmen friends at homecoming and at marching band practices, and I get a sense of cognitive dissonance -- what do you mean? How are they having homecoming without me? As though I was the key part of the functionality of homecoming. But here's the thing: I went to a giant public school, with administration far above my head and children coming up behind me for decades. My high school is going to live forever, overflowing with the tales of thousands, while it remains the only story I'll ever tell. It's a relationship with no closure. 

Today was my last piano class. Frankly, I'm quite bad at piano. For someone who has been playing for eleven years, I can barely read notes or rhythms, and have almost never been motivated enough to practice consistently. In fact, the only span of time when I practiced every day was when my life and mental health were so bad that practicing felt like a reprieve from my knee-deep depression. 

All this to say-- for years, my lack of musical prowess caused me great grief. Most of my friends were practically prodigies, and I felt weak in comparison to their nearly blinding talent. But now that I'm out of high school, I'm shocked to discover how quickly these petty comparison games cease to matter to me. For the first time, piano truly feels like a hobby. I make plans to practice in college, securing myself housing in a building with a music room just for me. 

This "not caring" extends to pretty much everything. An underclassman secures themselves a research opportunity I would've killed for two years ago? A classmate packs their bags to fly off to the dream school that I never got into? Good for them! (And not in the sarcastic, bitter way I usually say that.) I guess I thought I'd be stalking Troy High deep into my forties, keeping track of who gets into Harvard and what their SAT scores are, but not even six weeks out, I'm discovering how little I truly care.

I'm one of those people who is enamored and inspired by everything. I've always considered it my greatest strength -- that a fifteen minute YouTube video can make elite ballet my new desperate dream because of how deeply I want the best for myself. But it has also been a handicap: I think I spent high school perpetually looking into other people's metaphorical houses, trying to make sure I wasn't missing out on anything. The twisted irony of this is that I am always missing something, because while I might be able to do anything, I certainly can't do everything. 

I'm sure I'll forget this lesson on August 19th when I move into college, but hopefully this rambling diaristic blogpost will still be here to remind me that much like piano, life is easier when you're doing it for yourself. 

And also, future Deepti: don't you dare let your decade-long investment in something that is going to enrich your life beyond words fade because your piano teacher is no longer there to force you to practice. In fact, go practice right now! This is only the end of an era if you let it be.