Take me back to the basics and the simple life. Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

It occurs to me that I don’t have a favorite book. Per se. Like, I have books I really love, and since I’ve got the actual worst appreciation for details I can read things over and over again without remembering most of the plot or the punchline. (Even mysteries…I’m blessed, I know.)

As such I’m not sure that I’d classify something I reread often as necessarily my favorite, you know?

What makes this whole thing even stranger is the fact that I have a favorite in a lot of other areas. TV? Probably Doctor Who (because River, okay). Movie? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid unless I’m sick and then it’s most definitely Miracle. Music? Needtobreathe, hands down. (Or EXO but it’s kind of embarrassing to admit my love for kpop in person.)

Most of the people who know me even a little know all of the above about my preferences, but I doubt if I asked them about my favorite book that they’d have an accurate answer. Of course, I might just be forgetting something glaringly obvious here, but I got a good amount of sleep last night so I’m pretty sure I really just don’t have one.

I asked a friend about this—actually, more like he doesn’t really have any strong feelings for Harry Potter and so I’m over here like, um do you like anything?!—and he told me his fave is a book he hasn’t read in a while but can really relate to. Naturally I racked my brain for any books I love to read and read again, wondering if any of them really spoke to me on that level. My conclusion? Not really.

The Horse and His Boy, for instance. I grew up listening to the Focus on the Family radio theater version of the Narnia series on repeat. Of the seven books The Horse and His Boy is easily the one I like the best, but it’s not like I often encounter talking horses who want to go with me as we run away to the north.

Other options that I’d classify under the fantasy/magic genre include The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley and the entirety of the Half Magic series but most particularly Half Magic itself. I like Howl’s Moving Castle, and all of Harry Potter of course, and when I’m home with my original collection I really, really like digging out The Goose Girl or Graceling.

In short, I like books that aren’t about the real world. In short—again—I’m on the cusp of entering the real world myself and appreciate the effortlessness with which I can lose myself in these stories. They aren’t about people who have to look for work prior to a big move—Seattle, in my case—or who have to write a 60-85 thesis or who don’t know how to pay taxes but certainly hope they’ll make enough next year to have to file. That same friend, the one who I’m still trying to convince to give HP a try, told me he reads nonfiction because they’re about real humans who gave life their best—or not—and can offer a little insight into how he and I, and everyone else struggling to leave their childhood behind without wilting completely under the weight of adulthood, might better survive.

What drags me deeper into the anxiety of graduating this May and still not entirely knowing what I want to do other than just write is precisely what makes him feel a little bit better about this whole adulting thing. Somehow we’re friends despite this and it’s kind of amazing because I really don’t get the appeal of reading about others’ very real successes and failures when I could be reading about something so completely imaginary that it pulls me far away from reality.

I wrote before about escapism, I think. Maybe…And here we have it in it’s finest form.

Strangely enough I’m not really bothered by this. It’s cool that my friend has what he likes to read and I do too; no one said we had to have the same opinions about books just because our Myers-Briggs letters are exactly the same. In fact, something that brought me and my best friend together is a book we both happened to randomly stumble across. It came up in conversation somehow like the first or second time we met and we’ve been friends since. (It helps that she likes Needtobreathe and once loved the Jonas Brothers as much as I do/did but whatevs, moot point.) She’s a goose feather of an ENFP to my very rigid ISTJ and some of our likes converge as much as they sometimes really differ.

I’m not sure what my point is in bringing this up, other than to maybe acknowledge that people are different and not everyone has to have a favorite book. And I’m not any less of an avid reader because of the fact that I don’t have one.

At the very least I’m not the kind of person to casually name drop Catcher in the Rye or Pride and Prejudice as my absolute fave at a cocktail party. Not that I go to cocktail parties…But the point remains: If you have a favorite, great! Tell people about it so they can understand you a little better since I truly believe that what you read reflects who you are, what you believe, and what your values are.

But if you don’t? That’s great too. I mean really, what better excuse to go out and read the world than that?

**Title: “EASE” by Troye Sivan**

I fear I have nothing to give. I have so much to lose. I have nothing to give; we have so much to lose.

I meant my most recent post as a platform for self expression and didn’t really demand or expect the response it received. But then multiple people told me how relatable the premise is—especially to college students or basically anyone without any idea of their own future.

And suddenly, this thinking about what I want has made me realize that my desires are meaningless if I am unequipped for the actual pursuit of the goals said desires (hopefully) help me set. Some of the things I want in life are pretty obviously impossible for me to achieve (i.e. Rain that is only ever warm).

But consistency, travel, self-protection, self-expression, willpower, making an impact in more lives than just my own? These I can do. Well, maybe. So here follows a list of exactly that: what I can do—what I’m innately good at; what life abroad has taught me; what university has prepared me for; anything really.

Expect a list as long, extensive, varied, and possibly mundane as the previous one. Don’t expect fact or concrete ability. “Can” doesn’t just mean something I am able to do today; it also implies future pursuits and (hopefully) successful endeavors.

I can bake. Probably better than I can cook, but I’d like to call myself a quick study so who really knows?

I can swim quite well actually. My father tells me I’m a natural which means I can choose to swim more often than I do and I’ll probably enjoy it more than I might think.

I can explain the different approaches to social science. Or what people thought about astronomy before Newton’s Laws of Planetary motion revolutionized the field. Or how to become a citizen in the U.S. and/or Italy.

I can call myself multilingual since I am fluent in English, conversationally proficient in Mandarin and Italian, and am currently learning Spanish. I guess you’d say this is something I’m good at; I claim it, at least.

I can treat my sisters better. We live in three different places or two different countries; take your pick. I am the oldest, supposedly the most responsible—though that might just be an age thing—definitely the most introverted, and probably the bossiest. Actually, if you asked the two of them, they might call the last characteristic practically factual. Anyway, we bicker a lot because my temper is quickly extinguished but also easily sparked; and so I can be better for them so that wanting their lives to be easier no longer seems quite as far fetched a desire.

I can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute. Probably (it’s been a while since I timed myself). My personality is vaguely obsessive and I spent my entire winter break basically doing two things: watching Korean dramas and attempting to solve the cube. And I did. Eventually. But now it bores me, so that’s something else I can do…

I can pace myself so that the fascination I have with those things which interest me doesn’t fade once they’ve been conquered or completed or just abandoned altogether.

I can write, or I’d like to think I can. When I was younger I wrote poetry which didn’t rhyme but was indeed generically formatted. I also wrote song lyrics with excellent grammar but poor depth and, alas, without music either. And now I’m in college so I can write essays for grades and e-mails for communication and Facebook statuses for affirmation of my cleverness (I’m still waiting for someone to comment “Oh, the cleverness of you.” Peter Pan anyone?) and blog posts for expression of my non-academic thought (though months apart, they do exist; I promise!).

I can eat double stuffed Oreos, drink Dr. Pepper Diet, sleep all day, and binge watch Netflix with the best of them. It’s a problem. But, I can also perceive that these behaviors are probably not the healthiest for me, which means I can be responsible enough to do my homework when assigned, attend class always, eat well usually, and exercise on occasion.

I can people watch for days. Human beings are unbearably interesting and I do so enjoy making illogical leaps from what I see to what I imagine their lives to be like.

I can write a cover letter and revise my resume until the cows come home, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything will come of it.

And I can dream to my heart’s content and plan ahead as far as I’d like, but that doesn’t mean I’m being practical or realistic. Or that I won’t be disappointed if things don’t work out like I’d hoped.

I can be mean. I’d like to say it’s merely wit with an edge, but I know my words can be painful to others and so I can work on that too.

I can resign myself to the fact that finding a job right out of college with a B.A. in Politics (essentially) and an M.A. in Social and Cultural Analysis (but really just American Studies) is probably going to be really frustrating and difficult. And I can tell myself that this is okay because at least I got to spend five years in an amazing city studying something I love. And I can pretend my rationalization is enough, even when life experiences tell me it isn’t.

I can try my hardest to be inspirational or funny or smart, and usually I’ll just end up looking silly. Either that or it’ll seem like I’m trying to hard. But, I can also be myself in all situations and hope for the best—surprisingly enough, this has usually worked in my favor. Sure, you say, but you’re still only 21. So what? I reply, age is just a number and mine is definitely high enough to be occasionally panic inducing.

I can quote from memory the entire first chapter to almost every book in the Chronicles of Narnia. “This is a story that happened in Narnia and Calormen and the land between, in the Golden Age…”

I can read and reread and read again with no clear memory of plot details since my hunger is so great that I consume books too quickly to remember anything at all.

I can draw and ink and call myself an artist. Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself. And artist doesn’t just apply to the visual, because I can sing too. So can my sisters actually. Shameless plug, I know, but go listen anyway.

I can become a woman instead of a girl. I can refine myself into an independent person who is confident enough to want a man but also confident enough to know she doesn’t need one. Confidence I have, but I’m working on that last bit.

I can argue like a lawyer without the education because I am an ISTJ and logic and reason are my best friends. But so are two ENFPs, which means I can and should learn to empathize.

I can apply logic to fear and know that I shouldn’t be scared of the dark. And I shouldn’t be afraid that my ascending airplane will never stop and will eventually take me to space. And I shouldn’t worry that I’m not going to find a job after graduation. And yet, I can be introspective enough to admit that sometimes I am still afraid.

But then I can also recall Doctor Who (as I do) and remember that “It doesn’t matter if there is nothing under the bed or in the dark, so long as you know it’s okay to be afraid of it…You’re always going to be afraid, even if you learn to hide it…But that’s okay, because if you’re very wise and very strong, fear doesn’t have to make you cruel or cowardly.”

Clara says that “Fear can make you kind.” The Doctor says that “Fear can be a great motivator.”

And I say this: I’m afraid that I can’t do enough to make what I want a reality. I’m afraid that my degree(s) will get me nowhere in a world where practical knowledge and ability get you further than theoretical suppositions. And I’m afraid that exactly 12 is too high a number when the sad days seem to overwhelm the happy ones.

But in this, Clara, the Doctor, and I all agree—fear is okay because it’s driving me to be better, to work harder, to stop laying around lamenting my situations and to start actively improving them. It doesn’t matter that I want impossible things because I can be afraid. And that’s okay.

**Title: “Fear” by Sarah McLachlan**