She is a time traveller. Put on a childhood sweater and hang her hair in braids, and she can see every spill of stubborn oatmeal tantrums as though it were more real than the blood running through her veins. If she could, she'd stay there forever.
The seams of the threads holding me together are fraying and breaking apart, in ripples and in bursts, and, with it, all my accidental bruises, foolish tears, bona fide laughters. They spill to the ground like gems in a collector's torn satchel, each plunge as loud as the wave of nostalgia crashing into me, each drop as painful as the incurable yearn I feel. Perhaps a dose of dusty letter boxes, or a perscription of yellowing photo albums can keep it at bay, but for the most part, I ache to be a child again.
I turned 18 last month and I think I grew up too quickly, not only in the time that has passed but as an evolving body of cells. The bridge between my childhood years and young adulthood years seems to be made of mist and blur, and on it, I seem to have been speeding at eighty miles an hour, raising all the red flags and ringing all the sirens, but never once stopping because there was a fire breathing dragon bounding right behind. I hated my tween years considerably.
Now, after crossing the final border, after successfully evading my pursuers, after exhausting myself from running, I seem to have reached a destination wherein metropolitan wilderness settles. Buildings made of routines, landscapes made of relationships and vehicles made of hypocrisy lunge at me as I drive through in my little car the product of soaring dreams and naive beliefs. This is the land that progresses through uniform, endless days and I find that, even after having driven so long, the fuel that expedites me has not combust. It is overflowing in spontaneity and excitement.
But here. Here, the heat is calmed significantly by the coldness of young adulthood. It's the vulture that eyes your draining age, the defibrillator that shocks your deteriorating heart, the doubt that consumes your decaying dreams. Then fear and abstraction moves in. Upon reaching my teen years, I've already experienced several situations that have left me breathless for life, a well drained and dried. Left me hopeless. Desperate. Haunted. And as these years have progressed, things seem only to have gotten worst and it is in the times where my mind screams louder than my frantic chords that I wish I was a child again.
To be able to believe in Santa Claus and the toothfairy again without knowing that a single shred of lie was being spun, to be able to laugh a toothless grin and jump a flabby hop again without feeling like a cloak of shame was shrouding me, to be able to dream without doubting and speak without fearing and do without caring.
As much as I enjoy knowing, and as much as I enjoy being conscious of my own existence, I want to forget everything and be a blank canvas again. Let myself be stained with fresh memories and overturned water bottles. Let myself mould into a brand new sculpture by the hands of nap time and piggy banks. Let myself be dented and scraped by embarrassing falls and meaningless bets. And then when the time comes and the fire breathing dragon comes at me again, the one made out of prickly judgement and scaly double standards, I want to tear myself apart, set myself on fire and in the ashes that I become, rise like a phoenix an untainted being.
I'm wearing a childhood sweater I rediscovered some time ago. Worn by my brother first (who tore the insides of the collar), myself and finally my sister after I most likely spilled food all over it numerous times, the whimsical piece, patterned and printed with Garfield, Keropi and Mickey Mouse all around, was tucked away in a little suitcase and left to forget in a store room. Until my itchy hands flung open the doors and fished this out from anymore decay. I'm glad.
I wanted to channel some sort of playfulness, and denim shorts, calf-high socks topped with braided pigtails seemed the easiest route to go down. I also obviously have my go-to backpack and go-to shoes (the ones that make it seem like I don't own any other pair of shoes, ha!)
Anyway, I'm mentally and emotionally confused, drained, exhausted, whatever the word is this week and I'm so ready for the weekend.
How has your week been? I'd also love to know your thoughts on childhood, your experiences with coping and also: slightly more personal posts (like this one), yes or no?