if I could ever recover the 16-year-old, who was as wise as she was naive, who asked questions that mattered, who was not afraid because she did not know yet what fear meant.
It is not a longing for a past long gone, not really; 16 sucked too because I was gangly and clumsy. No, I miss the feeling that that time represents. I think the most glorious moment in any life is when one is standing at the threshold of a new world. Right now the world seems so old.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I notice the bits of me that are exposed, and bits that are covered up. It's the same as always I guess, just now I'm conscious of it. Consciousness is a killer. Every decision becomes consequential, each mistake more serious than the previous, and sillier than the next.
I am not depressed, okay. Just overly contemplative and a little bit trapped. I truly wish the sad words would stop.
***
Some time ago I wrote: The problem with waiting is that I'm fully conscious of it.
I philosophize the fact that I'm waiting for my wisdom to come. I may have lost it. Poetry. Irony. Magic. All I see are unifrom faces, dozens of them walking around in identical pin-striped suits and disheveled hair. It is a tiresome affair, sitting here and watching them. I'm sure they are more than their typical beige coats and perpetual pink blush. I know I am, even though I don't have a beige coat. So I don't understand why I'm so disappointed. Is everyone the same everywhere?
But I've been seeking something else, something I know now that I haven't found here, where I am.
Somewhere at the margin perhaps, a short distance away from this humdrum existence. A life of meaning, of movement. And I don't want to wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment