I swing back and forth in the winds, a puppet rattled by the slightest breeze, all my muscles tense, invisible strings keeping them so. The slightest hint of anger or sadness spark explosions of trepidation, as if my mind is a tiny house spider, and the people around me can blow me away with a breath. One day, I am sociable, remembering, happy. The next, I am withdrawn, cold, and my memory blank, no matter what happened before, and the house spider weaves its web of doubt, pulling at tendrils of random, coincidentally created thoughts to make them spiral eternally, raising a flush in my face at the mere thought of explaining or a single thought slipping into speech. They are taken captive by the house spider as foundations for its web and establish a Fibonacci spiral, leaving the lonely house spider trapped, falling asleep to the dream of being a social spider. It awakens at the idea of learning, a glistening morning dew drop of knowledge hanging tantalizingly upon the silk—something to propel the spider to detangle itself and form an ethos. Every day, it dances in the rain and morning mist and drinks it all up, whatever it may be—history, science, math, and reading. Oh, how it loves to read and detangle stories, as if its own web miraculously detangles, too. Worlds, real and imagined, to see, and a million perspectives to see from. Even if it’s lonely in number, it’s hardly lonely in mind, distinguished and strong, ready to find a different house to weave its web and its purpose—to weave and detangle. Its eight legs dance, ablaze, upon keyboards to spin stories, weave worlds in the illusion of isolation, wherever it may be in reality—at home, at school—free to build and destroy. These literary webs are daydream thoughts forever preserved, like spiders in amber, and stick with a fervent passion—webs of power, control, and dreams to carry me into the future. Uphill battles, the shy and the timid, and those as free as fae spun together and push me forwards. But it’s hard to weave when things cannot be detangled and examined, without travel—the various towns of Italy and Spain and their easygoing, purposeful, and bright days—without art—color and line to convey snapshots of time and emotion—and, in my senior year, art history. It’s a seemingly simple web, with the Renaissance, Van Gogh, and Picasso, maybe a Classical building, too, but deeper than the Pacific Ocean, tracking culture and history through the visual arts, where everything is to be deduced and learned, preservations of long-gone worlds, moments, and perspectives. Now, the puppet dangles above the web of the future, soon to drop, and it is ready—to travel the world, create and preserve art, and weave and detangle webs for all to see and know, whoever they are, there’s something for them, and their webs are yet to be woven.