When I was little, only six or seven, I remember riding in my parents' car late at night and staring out the window. I remember looking past the scary shapes and dark shadows of the trees. I admired the moon; it seemed so close, yet so far away. I always wanted to touch it, and I thought that maybe if I just kept riding- maybe if I just tried a little harder and reached a little farther... Maybe then I could touch it. I remember silently willing my parents to drive faster, but they never did. We would always get home, and I would be so disappointed because it was always just out of my reach.
As I got older, I gave up. I'd learned I would never reach the moon from the back seat of my parents' car. I grew up. The days of simplicity disappeared and long, arduous days of adolescence arrived. I no longer chased the moon; I chased perfect grades, friendships, relationships. I earned the grades, and I got the awards for them. I made my parents proud. I was put in all honor's classes. In those classes, I made the best friends anyone could ask for. I also met whom I thought was the best boyfriend a girl could ever have. He was the sun and the moon to me. Our relationship was perfect... Or so I thought. A few months passed, and things fell apart. I had to then experience my first heartbreak.
I thought that maybe if I could just not act so difficult sometimes; maybe if I had been a little more like someone else; maybe if I were just a tiny bit cuter... Maybe then we could have worked. I tried to go with the flow. I tried to act a little less like me. I lost weight, I let my hair out of its usual pony-tail, I wore earrings, and I dressed more girly everyday instead of every other day. Only now do I realize that, like when I was a little girl, I had only been chasing the moon.