Motivation is what many teens lack today. They lack the enthusiasm to sit in a classroom without needing to listen to their iPods once the teacher starts talking. They slack off during class, come late, turn in little if no homework and refuse to participate in class. They are satisfied by Ds just to pass. They walk, simply dragging themselves from room to room, barely raising their head, barely looking up to see the teacher who smiles and wants to help them succeed.
But success isn’t really a goal anymore for many. The goal has become living easier, having more, more money, more drugs, more pain relivers, more sex.
Living easier is possible in America because we have too much of everything. We have too many cars, too many wire-less communication devises like cell phones and computers, too many resources. We have so much that we’ve forgotten their values.
Values are almost meaningless as the media continually influences our perspectives and outlooks. The media is our way of seeing the rest of the world. We get a single image of a single event that happens somewhere across the Atlantic, and the rest becomes Hollywood, Madonna, Britney Spears and Donald Trump.
So why is it that we’ve become almost immune to what goes around us? Why do we not care anymore? Why is being rich suddenly more important than having an education? Why have we become so desensitized?
“We’ve seen it all,” my friend S tells me. That’s why.
My English teacher worries. He worries because we don’t care. Because we just sit and stare at him and have no answers. I’m sure he is not the only teacher who is troubled by how little we care for our education, how little we strive, how little we give a damn, how little we step up, how little we think.
“Apathy is not an option”
The poster reads.
But here in our classrooms, apathy has become the only option.

Desensitized. Apathetic. Cynical.
Our generation, the undeveloped brains of teenagers, has often been called one with extreme apathy and lack of concern.
And sadly, in a way we have lost our enthusiasm and concern for many things. Things that were once so arguable, so analytical, so important and notable. Things that meant a great deal to us. Things that we gave a shit about. No, things that we cared for.
So why is it that we are not shocked by underage kids who smoke pot and get drunk every night? Why is it that we are no longer shocked by images of pornography or sex? Why are we so used to hearing curse words even on the local radio station?
What is happening to us?
We sit in English today and talk about society’s influence on how apathetic we, the laborers of tomorrow, the hopes of future, have become. We can either blame it on our parents, who either didn’t raise us the right way or didn’t enforce the right punishments. Or we can blame the media. Or we can blame ourselves.
But even if we do blame ourselves or others, what can we do now to fix our views?
“What’s going to shock you?” he asks the class.
And none of us has an answer…

Everybody looked so damn happy. There was big traffic on the sidewalks. I guess it was because of Easter. People are always looking for an excuse to get out. Almost all the mothers who were pushing their strollers were pregnant. Everybody seemed happy. God knows how they actually felt.
I asked her to make coffee even though I hate coffee. I ended up making it myself though because she was busy. So I made coffee for the first time and it actually wasn’t too bitter. At least it wasn’t as bitter as I was.
The moon was orange tonight. I got bored again so I went to the damn balcony and felt lousy looking at the stars. I was so cynical. I kept thinking. I’m a writer and the only thing I know how to do best is thinking. The only trouble is over-thinking, which I often tend to do.
A bunch of men are out on the balcony across from me. I think they’re playing cards. I can’t really tell because it’s too dark and I’m not wearing my glasses anyway. So I assume they’re all men and they’re playing cards while taking a puff at their cigars. Their cigars are not expensive though. I’m assuming they’re not rich.
Meanwhile, I play with my iPod, changing song after song, getting more depressed by the minute. I keep listening to a French song by Raphael; French men don’t have last names. I have no idea what he is singing, but I’m in love with my own interpretation of this song. I pretend it’s about wanting to run away, wanting to get lost. I’m a writer, I can make up anything.
I must come to a conclusion after all this nonsense and incessant rambling. But the funny thing is, there is no conclusion. There is never a conclusion. We all want to make a point out of what we say. But tonight, I’m going to let you make your own point from these sentences. That is if you choose to make one. It’s really up to you because frankly there really might not be any point.

I went out on our balcony. The rain had stopped, but I could still smell its presence. The laundry room’s lights were on and a woman was taking out her clothes out of the dryer. Everyone else was probably asleep. I stood in my pyjamas. As the night wind brushed against my face, I suddenly had this deep urge to fly.
I didn’t get to fly though. I just thought about it for a while. The woman left the laundry room, but I remained standing. I don’t think she saw me. Even if she had, she wouldn’t know why the hell I was up on the balcony so late at night. I don’t think anybody would have cared to know.
So I finally left the night’s embrace and went back inside. Inside where the lights kept me awake, kept me thinking and reasoning.
Back inside the living room, it was just me and my laptop. I knew it was going to be a long night…
It’s 1:30 a.m. now and I’m still awake, writing the night away…
I wonder if the woman put her clothes away first and then went to bed.

After a good cry, this night doesn’t look too bad. The moon is a full one tonight and I won’t fall asleep…
Leaning against my open window, I feel so vulnerable, so loose, so shaken. Mom pats my shoulders gently and tells me not to expect so much from myself at 18. If only her words would stay in my head. If only I would listen, it would be so much easier…
The wind hears my anger and frustration. The wind listens. I close the window and leave my room.
I talk to Nura. She listens and responds. She is a friend so she listens. The wind listens but without a response.
It’s almost 1 a.m. and the odor of this room is killing me. I open the window again and the wind is still there, listening. Except I’m quiet now. I am quiet in my head…I want to sleep.

The American dream is a big lie. Let me rephrase that. The American dream is fame and Hollywood. If you want to be a big-shot millionaire, that’s where you should go, Hollywood.
But I don’t want that dream. I don’t want fame. I want my writing to be famous. I don’t want to a pretty face on a stupid magazine cover. I want money, but I don’t want to be rich because of fame.
If I can’t have my dream, then I don’t want anything else.

Sitting among 23 women in a small, tiny dress room is quite scary. These women are preparing for their Nepali performances. The event is for the Nepali New Year, which is now 2063. I’m here to see G perform her dance. She’s a great dancer.
The mothers are painting their daughter’s faces with blush, foundation, mascara, and all the other extra crap that goes on the face. They don’t look comfortable, wearing the heavy jewellery and the multilayered outfits. Some have to wear Saris. The Sari is difficult to wear; it has many layers that go in certain directions. I watch a woman put it on but I can’t follow her quick hands.
So I’m sitting there on a chair, staring at all the bright colors of pink, red and yellow. I love how colorful the dresses are. If a person were to come in, he would easily spot me because I have absolutely no resemblance to those women. I’m wearing a black coat with a sweater underneath, no makeup, no hairdo, simply natural. But I’m happy because I’m pretty comfortable.
I realize then that women can be quite annoying. They talk incessantly the entire time and I’m beginning to feel a headache.
Finally the room is quite. I think they are tired of talking. They look beautiful and their beauty isn’t fake. They have so much talent and motivation that I feel incompetent among them.
One by one, they leave the room. I’m left to stare at my unkempt self in the mirror.

S and I talk about our big dreams. She says she is a dreamer with reality checks. We find out that we have more in common than we thought we did.
I’m hungry the entire time. She buys me a big cookie and we keep discussing our dreams and fantasies about seeing the world. Then we have to get back to studying the effects of global warming. Who cares about global warming when we have our futures to talk about!
By the time I finish eating my cookie, we both realize that we’re dreaming a little too soon. There are still things to do before we can head off to live our ideal lives. So we settle a smaller, more affordable deal. Maybe a short trip to Chicago. We can have a small adventure and taste independence. You have to start with small steps to live the “real world”.

Despite our big desires, needs, and our endless thirst for more, there are times that simple things like a Starbucks drink become enough, become satisfying.
Lately I’ve been hungry more often than usual. I cannot stop eating. I want the cookies that I always avoid. I want the chocolates that I try not to look at. I want big pizzas and I don’t care for calories. But I’ve been hungry not just for food, but for dreams too, the dreams ones I’m too impatient to get to.
I was very impatient earlier today. I was not myself, and I really mean it because I know who I am by now.
And I just had to have a Java Chip (another word for a chocolaty drink with lots of cream and calories) with my friend Nura.
I don’t know if it was the delicious Java Chip or the blue dress I tried on, but I became satisfied. I stopped whining. And I forgot about London. I forgot that I am dying to see what’s outside of Virginia, that I’m dying to live in New York and write. I forgot and I’m still satisfied.
Maybe we just have to give it time and let things rest for a bit. Sometimes a little thing like a good drink helps. And sometimes it’s the friends who listen and know the right things to say.

Two boys, between the ages of 10 and 11, are fishing. What an easy thing to want: a fish. Right now, a fish is satisfying to them. Once they get older, they’ll want more than a fishing pole. They’ll need more; they’ll ask for more.
I wish I wanted a fish instead of big, intangible dreams. Big dreams cost more. They weigh more and take more time. They make us insatiable, more than we need to be.
The boys continue to throw their poles in the lake. There is still no sign of fish.
If catching a fish is a possibility, then maybe bigger dreams could be too.
Can we catch bigger dreams? I think we can.