as soon as we grow up, we get labelled.
stamped, dated, labelled.
birthdate. time. place. weight. height. worth.
an arbitrary name we have no choice in, yet it becomes
something so intricately woven into everything we do
for (usually) pretty much the rest of our lives
as we grow, we accumulate more and more labels
school. program. skills. talents.
derogatory terms. categorizing terms.
brands we wear, bands we love.
our personalities end up being boxed into these few labels
some others stamp on us. and some we stamp onto ourselves.
and that’s what we become.
enclosed and contained within our own selves,
taped and packed and labelled.
aahh, stumbled upon one of my old poems from when i was about fifteen or something~ ^^
stop squinting and looking into the far distance
what you can’t see
you [don’t think] of
look at what you can see
what’s here with you now
look up at the sky
breathe in the wind
don’t search for meaning [beyond the horizon]
stay in the here.
look at the now.
to your feet.
look to the side.
m e y o u
[everything is here.]
yes. im not leaving (yet).
i’m here (for) now
in my head
think of what i didn’t do yet
of what i will be thinking of.
when i go.
yes. i will be –
no. “will be” is not “now”.
i am staying.
“n o w.”
i am staying beside you.
you are here
everything is here.
she reads a lot.
but novels, not so much.
she likes poetry because poems are often not about
tim or tom or daisy or doll
they are about you.
it’s like reading a song where you get to pick the tune.
and in these books, she found pieces of herself.
which was something so dear to her.
because so much of her was lost.
when she was young
she wore her heart on her sleeve
and gave out pieces of it to others
but they broke those pieces and left her
and now she had these holes in places she couldn’t reach
and if only band-aids could fix a broken heart
there’s this boy; his name means ambitious and auspicious and someone who soars.
he is beautiful, and hard working, and he definitely does soar.
but the biggest thing about him is that
his heart is filled with so much love,
his capacity for it amazes me.
so of course, this boy meets a girl, and many things happen
and all the things that happen, if you really get a chance to see them,
leave you with the feeling like
ah. so this is what they meant by “love”.
(and oh, so this can happen outside of a movie script?)
so what i want to do is…
– i want to write their story.
but i don’t know how to write something based on true events
without saying too much, or fabricating too much.
it seems like it’ll be a story with all feelings, no plot.
all telling, no showing.
is that okay?
can i write something like that?
just a pure, simple story
of my observations of other people’s stories?
is that something i can write?
i was always a serious child
i thought too much, and did too little
and stuck to the safety nets of swings and sandcastles while other kids braved through monkey bars and climbing the trees on the playground
i watched a lot of movies, and read a lot of books, so
i saw things differently, in my head
i was the lead role, and i had a special purpose
“the chosen one”
this weird little self-indulgent, yet oh so common theme in fiction
and i fed right into it
thinking i could control the weather, and seeing magical trees where there was lightposts
breathing life into inanimate objects
and believing a swing could teach me to fly
i had alternate names and identities
and thought fame was something worth attaining
little did i know
reality was always much too mundane, is always too mundane
and i loved seeing colours where there was only grey, and feeling like the wind in my hair
was there just to kiss my cheeks and brighten my day
would you say your life was more fun/enriching during your childhood?
if yes, what is it about life right now that makes it so much duller than it was as a child?
or (it might be weird but) i want you to be happy. [working title]
so, so fleeting.
you have to keep moving, keep talking, keep working
or else they forget.
one by one.
they all forget.
“there is no break from this prison.”
that’s what he told me.
“this wonderful prison with gold walls, and silver mirrors, and admiration in the form of obsession”
i didn’t know. i don’t know. i will never know.
“they put you up on this pedestal. but the legs are made of cotton balls, and the seat is made of wood, not brick. everywhere you look is sterling silver imitating gold. fake smiles and empty words imitating soul. the windows aren’t glassed, they are just bars; bars with gaps just wide enough for tomatoes and bullets made of words and burning lights and hatred. judgement. criticism. lies. lies. lies.”
but they don’t even know you. i plead.
and he just stares back at me.
i don’t mind.
i don’t look away.
until he finally adds:
“and what makes you think you do?”