When you give in to the idea that not having anyone to talk to is the new normal, you find yourself in your own company, and you think up shit like this:
There are times, and if I’m honest, nearly all the time, when I feel almost sure I can stretch my arms out far enough, and lean in, on the tips of my toes - and I can almost touch the end of my life.
It used to feel so far away. It was this unimaginable thing, because I was young, and I was supposed to be invincible. It’s not that I wasn’t prepared for that to end, but I didn’t expect to get stuck in between. I made an orphan of myself, of I was abandoned as a lost cause. You’ll decide.
I failed to become an adult. I do better and better at making it all look good, but it always feels like someone tore several chapters out of the middle of the book, and not only does it not make sense now, but it feels unsatisfying in ways that are hard to describe.
I think I may have even failed at being a child. It always felt that way. Something was out of place. When I try to trace it back, I see myself in pink OshKoshByGosh overalls, a big, hopeful, plastic bow, in my long not-blonde hair, just out of sync with the rest. There were weird dark circles under my eyes. I blinked too much. Being with other kids took too much work.
In this memory I am standing “on the line” with other kids who could not fall into compliance. A boy stood there with me. Resentment shone in his eyes, when he cast them sideways at me. A teacher paced back and forth keeping a ere I expected to be. Matt knew this was not where he belonged. From the day he was born, he was on a path, and it did not include a side trip with the “Line Kids”.
In fact, I can remember that I got him into this. I remember it had to do with the lunch room, but from there, the details have blurred into obscurity. (I pause here to ponder why some memories matter)
It was second grade and we were the wrong kids, for that day anyway.
—————————————————————————————————————
- Something stopped me there. Most likely a total lack of privacy or space in which to think. It made me reflect on what I had written so far and why I had written it. Why am I writing any of this? Why does anyone write anything? -
I guess similar questions, have felt like accusations. I’ve been unable to answer to myself. I handed over paint brushes, blogs, projects and other passions, in shame. Maybe it will be mine in the end, and no one else will be effected.
Something pushes forward and demands to be heard. watchful eye over Matt and I, and the other “kids on the line” who’ve since faded from my memory. We watched the “right” kids play; four square, tag, jungle gym.
I was wh
When you give in to the idea that not having anyone to talk to is the new normal, you find yourself in your own company, and you think up shit like this:
There are times, and if I’m honest, nearly all the time, when I feel almost sure I can stretch my arms out far enough, and lean in, on the tips of my toes - and I can almost touch the end of my life.
It used to feel so far away. It was this unimaginable thing, because I was young, and I was supposed to be invincible. It’s not that I wasn’t prepared for that to end, but I didn’t expect to get stuck in between. I made an orphan of myself, of I was abandoned as a lost cause. You’ll decide.
I failed to become an adult. I do better and better at making it all look good, but it always feels like someone tore several chapters out of the middle of the book, and not only does it not make sense now, but it feels unsatisfying in ways that are hard to describe.
I think I may have even failed at being a child. It always felt that way. Something was out of place. When I try to trace it back, I see myself in pink OshKoshByGosh overalls, a big, hopeful, plastic bow, in my long not-blonde hair, just out of sync with the rest. There were weird dark circles under my eyes. I blinked too much. Being with other kids took too much work.
In this memory I am standing “on the line” with other kids who could not fall into compliance. A boy stood there with me. Resentment shone in his eyes, when he cast them sideways at me. A teacher paced back and forth keeping a ere I expected to be. Matt knew this was not where he belonged. From the day he was born, he was on a path, and it did not include a side trip with the “Line Kids”.
In fact, I can remember that I got him into this. I remember it had to do with the lunch room, but from there, the details have blurred into obscurity. (I pause here to ponder why some memories matter)
It was second grade and we were the wrong kids, for that day anyway.
—————————————————————————————————————
- Something stopped me there. Most likely a total lack of privacy or space in which to think. It made me reflect on what I had written so far and why I had written it. Why am I writing any of this? Why does anyone write anything? -
I guess similar questions, have felt like accusations. I’ve been unable to answer to myself. I handed over paint brushes, blogs, projects and other passions, in shame. Maybe it will be mine in the end, and no one else will be effected.
Something pushes forward and demands to be heard. watchful eye over Matt and I, and the other “kids on the line” who’ve since faded from my memory. We watched the “right” kids play; four square, tag, jungle gym.
I was wh
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