Floating Off A Page...

Wait . I’m not ready for this. I don't want this. It’s too soon. Come back tomorrow. Leave. You were supposed to be here a year ago. I gave up on you. It’s too late. You should’ve been here yesterday. Stay. I’m not done with you yet. I thought I had more time It’s too soon. You’ll be back tomorrow? Come. I’m ready. There’s food in the fridge, and blankets on the bed. I left space for you on the couch. I’m ready now. But you left yesterday.

Fidgeting. Fingers twitch, inspiration strikes, furious typing. Erasing. Couplet about heartbreak Gets morbid, delete . Needs coffee. Remembers quitting coffee, sits back down. Cliched comparison of love to another abstract human construct. Realizing it makes no sense. Erasing. Surfs Tumblr, self-hates, takes a walk. Sits back down again. Thinks about coffee. Looks at the time. 7:05pm Guess we’re starting at 8. Netflix. Hour-long show. It’s 8:05. Too late. More furious typing. Thinks about investing in a new computer. Gets on Amazon. More erasing. Hates self some more. Stares at screen. Calls a friend. Hates self out loud. Goes and gets that coffee.

“I’m not ok.”  “Everything hurts.” “I’m not happy. Not anymore.” I’ve been told I talk too much.  That I have words for all occasions; joy, grief, anger or even apathy. Words for you, words for me. Words that entrance and words to set you free. “I miss you, even though you’re right here.” “I miss me.” I always have a greeting and a smile to share If I don’t like you. If I do, I might ask how you’re doing too, I might listen when you respond. “That wasn’t funny.” “That wasn’t ok.” “You make me uncomfortable.” Maybe we all talk too much, trying to keep the silence from seeping in. Silences don’t lie, you see. And in what isn’t said, maybe we say too much. Or maybe no one’s even listening. “I’m not ok.”

I'm not sure if growing up is a conscious decision, or if it's something we can't really control. I'm not sure if it's a process, a painstakingly long journey, or a single moment of clarity that changes everything. Maybe it's all of these things; maybe it's none. Maybe how we grow up affects who we grow into as much as anything else does. But eventually, the world chews us up and spits us out, and suddenly all we can see are shades of gray. Nothing is black anymore, nothing is white; but what is worst of all, nothing is in color. And as much as we try to bring them in again, there's no unseeing reality; no going back. Just forward, but without colors, direction seems meaningless. And we're stuck, stagnant, a never ending cycle of disillusion that you can't really ever break. So grown ups have their own set of delusions to give their world a semblance of meaning. People are classified and judged to better understand them, senses of purpose are ...