I was clearly not destined to be a mathematician.

   Eighteen used to seem so far away at age eight. I always wondered what kind of person I would be, and what kind of goals I would achieve. I'd have to say, I'm pretty damn amazed. I don't think we give ourselves enough credit, we are constantly waging wars within ourselves and fighting battles that strive for perfection.

   Lately, I have had an immense desire to volunteer and get involved with my community and I think it is because I am beginning to lose hope for it. Being away for a while helped me miss the trash-scented air, the garbage filled streets, the broken swing sets and the lingering people. It made me realize that New Brunswick is a hole--not a shit-hole but a hole. Those that leave, never really leave in the first place.

 I had the opportunity to volunteer at the 4-H County Fair, and it was an amazing experience. 

It ended with a random candid of a very random (adorable) family:

Candy Land and a fantasy world.

   From being horrible at calculating change to give back to customers, to taking a 40 minute Rita's break I started to question myself in regards to my purpose here on Mother Earth (because, even though AP Calculus consumed most of my senior year of high school, I was clearly not destined to be a mathematician). Leaving New Brunswick and coming back after so long (even if it was only 5 weeks) gave me a sense of stability. I felt as though, I had been reunited with my soulmate. How could a community, not very loving, make me feel so whole? It was weird and scifi-ish. I went downtown to explore my city I had missed so much and I had an epiphany--This is a fantasy world.

It's hard for me to express New Brunswick as a whole (or a hole without sounding unappreciative), so I wrote a poem and I read it to an audience of Georgian Court University at the EOF's mandatory talent show. Trembling to my core, I nervously said:

The Unflawed Blackhole Knows What It Has Done (An Ode to New Brunswick, NJ):

By: Shaylah Jackson

There's a place in the sea where the creatures that roam never sleep, where the food is so nonexistent you can never eat. You fall right instead of down, there is noise but not a sound. All who enter understand that once you're in, it is your land. For there is no exit nor futuristic Great Escape, we are the broken ones, the misguided and self afflicted. This is the broken city, the daily departed often left spinning...Trying to find a place to go, not acknowledging the fact that there is no hope...No aspiration. Education, some...few live life on the run. Redundant journeys fill the planes, attentive yet sustained. For this place...It has no name...those who leave, never quite left in the first place.

Okay, maybe I over exaggerated a teensy bit, I have to admit I kind of sound like an emo adolescent in all her glory, but most of what I jotted down in the poem was accurate. I couldn't explain this to the crowd, I didn't even force out the meaning. All I wanted was for them to hear it, hear me, hear New Brunswick, and the ones that graduated 10 years ago but ended up coming back because they wanted a safe haven. It's ironic because in a sense, New Brunswick is a safe haven for those that grew up here, even though the streets are bloodstained and to mourn is a common emotion. They weren't from New Brunswick so I knew they wouldn't understand. 

As long as the skies are blue.

   Even though my purpose isn't to be the next Einstein or Galileo, and I am stuck between Mahayana and Zen Buddhism, I know I have one.