The things in my head

The crippling fear of being “boring” sticks in my mind like an old piece of gum, black from the soles of muddy shoes, stuck to the sidewalk. I fear to become the adult who would rather walk than run or who passes up the opportunity to jump on the tramp because they might break a fragile bone.

Instead, I live in denial. I skip when others walk, I dance in the kitchen, and I jump on the tramp doing flips just to prove I can. 

Being seventeen, I’ve watched as my four older siblings have grown to this stage. As young kids they used the word “yes” instead of “no,” and more often than not their voices rung, “mark, get set, go!” starting the fun. 

During the summer we biked to the famous fishing pond, my brother on the hunt for fish, my sister and I searching for hairy moss. Jumping in the boat for one, we would watch him fish, amazed by his skill of catching moss -totally unaware that he was getting more baffled with every cast.  Sitting by the pond for hours on end, just to realize at the end of the summer that there were no fish, to begin with, but it was fine because time seemed to freeze and moments lasted lifetimes.

As each sibling got married we added another member to the family. We still laugh and joke, but adult bellows ring through the house instead of the childish giggles. Now the word “no” is said to nieces and nephews as if it were part of a broken record, and “white-washes” are worth capital punishment. 

And the worst part of all is the fact that life happens. There is no stopping the inevitable; each person will grow and move on to greater things in life. Time keeps ticking, stealing moments and throwing them into the ocean of memory– most likely never to surface again. 

So I hold tight to these memories. My mind grips tightly and holds them as though they are the only lifeline above the chasm of certain death. I think of times past and make memories today that I will remember tomorrow. I know I will grow up, I will get taller and my hair will gray, but I will not grow to the age where I do not play.

I wish i was a robot.

i wish i could do everything. perfectly.

but im not.

i get annoyed

i act out of spite

i make mistakes.

And hide them.

i hate.

im not good at everything.

or anything.

I crave approval.

I dance in the kitchen

And think my off key singing sounds great in the shower.

I talk too loud

Or too quiet

I judge people when I look at them.

And Im usually wrong about them.

I change my mind.

I try to impress everyone

I do things for no reason at all.

I dont even know what is going on inside my head

But i want to know whats going on inside everyone else’s.

Ive hated myself

AND loved myself

Im jealous

Im kind sometimes

And ruthless other times

Im inconsistant

And Im using way too much paper.

I have a sound effect for everything

I have to talk out my feelings

My brain spins all night,

but turns off when i see a cute boy

My dreams are bizarre

Im a sucker for good eendings

Im always scared to be myself

Im unoriginal

I know who I am

I FEEL

Im scared of getting old

And that’s what makes me human, the beautiful imperfections that make me who I am. And maybe a robot would have perfect grades and probably wouldn’t have gotten that bad grade in math, but I love the imperfections. I love LIFE.

Firsts are hard.

They are scary and new and you don’t know what to expect. But, after the first, there is a second and sometimes even a third. And what was scary and new turns into old and boring. You adjust and take on more than you ever thought you could, but then it becomes your nature.

What’s even scarier is lasts. The last time you do something you know and have grown to love.

The last song.

The last time you play in a game of the sport you love.

The last time you hang out with a friend.

The last clap.

The last episode.

The last time you walk down the hallways you’ve memorized.

The last time you say, “I love you”.

Wishing you had taken just a second longer to enjoy them.

You feel like you’ve lost something. But can’t get it back.

The clocks just never stop going.

Most of the time, it is impossible to know that it is the last. Small things flit past, unnoticed. While big things ending are hard.

The blackness of the last steps are scarier than the first ones will ever be.