Thursday, 4 September 2008
10:42:34 PM (GMT)
I never want to grow up.
Haha. You laugh, but I’m not going to.
Sure, I may get older, my hair may fade to gray but I’ll never get old.
I’m watching everyone around me; my friends, family, peers, lovers… they’re all
so worried about the future. So much that sometimes I think I should worry too.
And I do, just not as much. Perhaps I will in a year or so. Already I can feel the
thought of college bearing down on me, jobs, housing, marriage even.
They’ll never catch me. I won’t allow it.
I doubt I’ll be driven into poverty as my parents and some friends fear from my
talking, and wishing out loud. This isn’t denial even if that is exactly what
someone in denial would say. I cannot live in a glass box. I cannot live in any sort
of box be it a cubicle, apartment… there is no air for me. I know I need glinting,
flickering, glimmering, air.
Air, wide open, alive, thriving air. And space, wide open, stretching, bending,
curving space. I hate fences. I hate feeling locked up.
Just knowing that my presence is being monitored, my work is being monitored, even my
behavior is made note of in multitudes of folders feels like iron manacles.
“You could just leave.”
I could actually, and I’ve tried several times before. It’s not that anything
physical is keeping me or that I don’t want to, it’s that there are so many
little strings tying me here.
People, obligations, responsibilities, expectations, unfinished business.
Perhaps that’s why I love scissors so much.
One by one, I’ve been severing these ties hoping that I can just pull away once
enough are cut. It has to be done within a certain window of time otherwise I know
there will be more and they’ll start braiding.
I need the air. I don’t want to spend my life suffocated by threads. I want to walk
along train tracks. I want to taste the moisture in the air after a rain. I want
write poetry on brick walls. I want to pick a direction and walk in it until I
can’t walk anymore. I want to plan. I want to foil plans. I want to be nameless. I
want to burn my folders. I want to be like smoke. I want to find others. I want to
touch people inside their glass boxes, shatter them if I have to. I want to dream and
make my dreams reality however delusional my friends, family or loved ones say or
think they are. I want what I want when and how I want it and I don’t want anyone
or anything telling me that my nature is wrong or bad or obscene. That my desires are
meaningless. That I am worthless. I’m not. No one is.
And I’m never giving up.