Pictures can often inflict pain, hurting, longing, and sadness. When you see old pictures of yourself, you generally remember the good things, unless it is a picture of you crying, then you just remember how your mom wouldn't let you have a popsicle and your dad thought it was funny so he snapped a picture. But most of the time, you look at the pic and remember how wonderful and whimsical everything was. There is a picture on my piano of me and my little brother when we were just children. Both our little faces are soft, blemish free, and he has a little plastic pipe hanging out of his mouth that blows bubbles. That's the only thing pipes were used for when we were young. I'm wearing a pink shirt with a pineapple on it and I have a dreamy look on my face. That was a great day. We went to the park and were rolling down the hills and hiding in the bushes and climbig all over the playground without out any thoughts but what we were doing at the exact moment in time. We didn't know how terrifying high school would be, or how everything boiled down to a test score or your taste in music or style in clothes - or if you even had style. My mom still dressed me, did my laundry and cooked all my meals. I had allowence, but all I ever bought was tootie rolls at the candy store down the street. Our lives were simple and charming. When we saw a great aunt that we hadn't seen for years, she would say "My! How you've grown!" and we beamed and stood up as straight as we could. Now when someone says that, we look back and realize everything we've had to do and still have to do and cringe and say "Thanks Aunt May," but can't think of anything else to say after that. It doesn't seem like an accomplishment, it seems like hell. Growing up hurts. You spend your childhood playing house and longing for when your mom lets you finally wear makeup and when the time actually comes, all you want is for your mom to play house for you and to go to the daily grind without a face full of plaster. How simple it would be to wake up and throw on some sweats and get on with nothing. But that's not life. Life works to kill. And it won't stop till it has accomplished it's mission. That's just how life works. You have to wake up when your alarm goes off, plaster on face paint, as well as a smile, and pretend like your having a good time. I'm sure at some point this will stop, and you'll start having fun. When you fall in love, when you retire, when peace finally washes over you and you can shut your eyes and be released. But life is work, and if you stop working, you don't get to keep your life. When I was 14, I moved here, to this new town. I thought it was going to be incredible. After all, middle school was. I had the whole class of 8th grade on my side, and we were loving life. Naturally, I thought this was how high school was going to go. I was going to meet an incredible group and we were all going to be best friends forever. But that's not how life works. Life kicks your ass. Freshman and Sophomore year passed. Friendships began, blossomed and wilted faster than you could blink. Each one more painful than the last. Depression overcame me and sent me spiraling into loneliness. I sat alone every lunch and tried not to cry. That school was not going to do it for me, but I met some really cool people that seemed to like me at the rival high school. Naturally, I transferred. Things were great. For a week. Until I started to realize that I had pushed myself into a group of friends that had been friends since first grade. They had their inside jokes and favorite TV shows. They all knew each other like the back of their hands. And I could pretend that you fit in, and pretend I understood, but really, I was entering another round of being alone, and depression that crippled everything about myself that I loved.