Life is like a mountain, at least that’s what they always said.  A day will come when the struggles will be over, one’s fingertips will grace the peak and find a new outlook on the world below.  Champagne skies will dance across the waters of one’s future, and it seems that life is a piece mastered to perfection.  I’ve spent most of my life looking for this mountain, for this halo of acceptance saying, “you’ve done it.”  An infinite process of trial and error turned to what I always felt it came down to, and that I simply didn’t reach the highest potential.  It had to have been something missing, a box left unchecked, anything that would not grant me access to the supposed utmost highest reward in life.  If life is like a mountain with the promise of a final destination where one can simply not reach any higher, I have been striving for this crest nearly my entire life, having never realized that maybe there is no such aim.  I found myself chasing the invisible, striving for the unachievable, and in its simplest form, I spent the majority of my years searching for perfection.
     My early past remained a straight line only rising up and up, and it seemed that my life could and would amount to the highest potential.  Initial elementary school flew by as a breeze, I never felt pressured to amount to anything more than what I could do.  I remember coming home from first grade and seeing a blue dash or two on my spelling test, not worrying too much about it other than what it counted for.  A system had worked its way in my mind, figuring out that red ink meant a disaster, blue equaled fair, and a smiley face sticker resembled the most outstanding, a perfect score.  Pulling papers out of my blue folder, I checked all my papers and noticed five shining stickers in the corners.  From there it just clicked, like a time bomb suddenly exploding in my brain, being wrapped around the fact that this is what I needed all the time.  I craved one hundred percents, practically ran on the numbers that totaled on my report cards.  As I climbed up on the scale, I started being seen as one of the smartest kids in the grade, and that only fueled the fire inside my head ignited by numbers and calculations.  Being seen as intelligent never once felt derogatory to me, in fact, I loved the idea.  Without me even declaring it upon myself, I fell under an oath by which I couldn’t omit, and therefore a streak of zero mistakes and where excellence reigned the only option.
     What started out as an uprising that I thought would not be prevailed by any others soon faltered, the down-sides creeping in.  By fifth grade, a constant weight sagged on my shoulders, nails dragging and clawing me under the swirling sea of stress I had brought upon myself.  The stress had gotten to the point of feeling like I could get sick every time we had to check our math homework from the night before, fearing and dreading that I’d slip-up.  I’d have to admit that I, Alea, one of the most intellectual girls in the class, made a mistake.  It only worsened as I aged into middle school, forcing me to stay up late each night perfecting every detail on my assignments.  My wish to find a mountain that I could surpass had sprouted right in front of me, and before I could stop myself, I collided with the rubble.  As far as I knew, the skies the same color as the sun were inexistent, and the promise of a better tomorrow didn’t stand.  I tried to convince myself that this is what I wanted, digging down deep to the girl who felt overwhelming joy by simple stickers.  Despite the persuasion, a bullet had punched right through my appreciation for attending each class every day, and although I sought out change, I figured it would never be found.  At the beginning of seventh grade, I had sunk tragically low into the darkness, never seeing anything past grade work and the numbers on the corners of my papers.  An unwanted feeling of dread swept over my stomach every time I boarded my mom’s car on the way to school, wishing to much rather stay in bed and not have to be forced to make mistakes in front of anyone.  The reputation I had built for myself should much rather be destroyed by not showing up, instead of failing right before the faces who had grown to know that I simply am not defeated.  I never thought I would surface again, that this never ending parade of panic would pass my life right on by. 
     One Friday after I had come home from school, I picked up my phone like usual and slid my headphones in, falling into routine.  My thumb pressed down on “shuffle,” my ears soon greeted with loud and fast drums, then kicked in by guitars.  I remember recalling that I had heard this song before, by a band that I only downloaded one or two songs of, and that—hey—this sounded pretty good!  Setting my book down, I glanced at my phone again, searching for the name of the artists that could produce such music.  As soon as I found their name, I searched for more of their songs, then their album, and soon enough I noticed myself in a clouded sea all filled with four teenage boys who just happened to play instruments.  Every day after school I would set aside my work, instead focusing on these new people that made gave me so much wonder.  They were what I looked forward to every afternoon, my reward for making it through yet another school day.  Weeks passed by at an alarming rate, and I had buried myself nose-deep in the absurdity that was called a fandom.  For the first time in a long time, I was extremely upbeat, and it had slipped my mind that the stress of grades had just disappeared.
     It wasn’t solely their angelic voices and charming looks that had swept me under this spell and kept me coming back, but their compassionate personalities as well.  They were constantly meeting fans, and voicing their opinions on public issues that were not being handled enough.  Assuming that they didn't care simply because they were teenage boys would lead you nowhere, for they gave a whole lot of thought to every individual.  While watching one of their interviews, I noticed something above ordinary, as the drummer of the group stated, “We aren't perfect people, we never were, and we don't want our fans to feel they have to be either.  We want them to be themselves.”  My heartstrings were all wound up in my chest, and I felt on the verge of crying while sitting there on my bed all alone, spare for this band through a screen.  Although he could've been talking about countless people, or no one at all, I felt as if he had been talking to me.  His voice and his eyes and every single syllable left me speechless, and impacted in a way words can hardly describe.  The epiphany in the madness of my striving for perfection landed somewhere amongst those moments, where even for a second, I learned that I could be important for being entirely myself.
     The promise of a better tomorrow doesn't exist, I know that now.  There is no higher reward in life, no mountain by which one must pass to be seen as extraordinary.  Before the wreckage, I felt as if I had been looking through a kaleidoscope, my life swirling and never at rest.  A broken map rested in between my hands, and the trail I supposedly followed led nowhere, bringing out the truth that my prize didn't exist.  Perfection is inhuman in every way, and unless I desired to be alien, my wishes would never be granted.  Although the road bared heavy, my feet now blistered from the travels, I've grown into a person far less afraid of numbers.  Without this lesson, I could still be counting every percent to the hundredth, and allowing each mark of ink to send me down in a cavern of failure.  I learned that reputations are nothing to be afraid of, and making mistakes is only a part of waking every morning.  As for mountains and champagne skies, and gold stickers and smiley faces, I now know that there truly is no greater success than being exactly who I am.