In the perspective of my seniors, my young age serves as a representation of minimal hardship and trouble. However, despite my age and growing up in an environment that encourages the fulfillment of my aspirations, I have faced a myriad of self-inflicted circumstances, all of which have taught me valuable lessons that nourish my morale. In recent years, I have found that cultivating pleasure in excess is a result of a life where I have escaped troublesome situations unscathed. I have had the painstaking task of being self-reflective and introspective, a trait that burdens me because of its harsh reality. As reprimandable as it is, and as shameful as it is to say, I have had to learn to be grateful for the luxuries that my family provides for me.

Growing up, I held the scornful preconception that every child had the same opportunity to prosper as I did. I was acutely aware of the atrocities that engulfed me, all self-inflicted and extremely painful. My obsession with the materialistic world derived from my inability to obtain sedation and peace with who I am. I masked my insecurities with a myriad of possessions that would only bring me happiness for a fleeting amount of time. I sought to veil my worries with the transparency of objects and never confronted what created this obsession. The compulsive behavior grew exponentially as I sheltered myself from others and constructed barriers between my feelings and the growing void that left me exposed to my own deprecating thoughts. I hated the way I felt. I felt dirty, the kind that a sponge could not scrub off. I felt like my uncertainties were consuming me. I was abandoning my passions because I thought that I did not deserve to feel a sense of achievement, like if I felt happy that I would become complacent with my life. That was when the pile of my possessions grew larger than the worry that surrounded me, and I was suffocated with the regrets of what I never pursued. 

The most difficult part of being at war with yourself is that no matter which side of you triumphs, you will lose a piece of yourself that you can never get back. The chivalrous side that is ready to fight for my morale and pride lost to the side of me that can only be described as an incessant, unrelenting fog in which its translucency clouds my mind and weakens my state of being. It is futile to fight yourself when every part of you will surrender to a distorted reality that was built with the foundation of stress and anxiety. Despite my introspection, appreciating the minimalistic details of my life is a difficult feat, and I am rigorously trying to build a better outlook on my surroundings for the betterment of my future.