I’ve been saying, “back when I was young and fun,” a lot lately. My world isn’t narrow. But it sometimes feels like I have bowling ally bumper bars alongside the pathway. Which sounds safe. But really it just makes me squeeze my eyes shut as I smack against the railing. I do bounce back. But it still bruises me.
I’m bothered that who I am and who I thought I’d be both match up and yet… don’t. Like looking at a 3D image without the 3D glasses. I’m blurred and confusing, but easily identified. I have somehow known strangers hugging me in supermarkets and not known strangers asking me for directions. I’m all these grownup words and yet, all of them slide off me into a muddled mess at my feet.
I’m bothered that I feel like three monkeys in a trench coat. Each one seems to be holding some vital part of me. Mind. Heart. Soul. But the communication seems to be more monkey screaming than words.
Which I used to be good at. Communication. Words. I used to be able to make people cry with a short story. Laugh with a quick, witty joke. Riled up by some clever, yet cutting insult.
But now I’m three monkeys in a trench coat. Blubber mouthed. Self-conscious. Tired.
Which bothers me.
It bothers me that I both pity and understand my parents now. It’s somehow both better and worse than the indifference childhood tints your emotions with. My mother is older and cracked like a dusty, unused flower vase with spiderweb cracks chipping the China. My father’s absence seems colder and jarring in a different way. Like a torn treasure map I could’ve used in adulthood if I’d had all the pieces. But now its stuffed in a drawer somewhere.
It bothers me that friendships have use by dates. And like the smell of sour milk, you can smell it long before you stop responding to each other. Not all. Some strengthen because you see eachother as souls holding photo albums rather than bodies. I have a friend who looks at me like I know the recipe to starlight. And I hold that very close to my chest. Because there might be a day she doesn’t. So, I’m going to turn that nightlight on until it breaks.
It bothers me that I’ve been sad about something I can’t see. I don’t know if its just because the world is mourning its innocence, or because I’ve finally accepted that I’m not who I was ready to be. But it bothers me. I always thought it was meant to be faith that you can feel – but can’t see. But perhaps when you brush up against the world the world brushes up against you. I just hope I get some of the good stuff too. I hope the brown is more chocolate than… well. Good with bad.
I miss writing. I miss who I used to be. It bothers me that my inner writing room has it’s door ajar. But the journey to get there takes days. Weeks. I want to write again. Get lost down the corridor, open one of the endless doors to another world. When I was younger, I could see so many worlds with a blink. Now? I barely dream.
That bothers me.
But perhaps, just perhaps. Like the gentle sleeping rise and fall of my babe’s chest. I will find the hope of tomorrow again. I will dance with my bothers. Each step acknowledged and expressed. The bother can be shaped and carved into Lady Hope. She smiles with the glow of a child. She beckons me with a knowing smile. And perhaps my bothers will sink into Pooh Bear quotes and honey.
I would like that.
Thankyou for asking me. Sometimes I forget to let the fireflies out of the bottle before they heat up and explode the glass.
I appreciate it.
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