I thought I made you feel different this time around, but ‘this time’ is a perilous phrase. My vision was questionable this time of year or any time of year for that matter, especially when it came to these things.
When I was very little, I would read Shel Silverstein and I would imagine that I had my whole life ahead of me and that only for that night, under a ceiling full of glow in the dark plastic constellation sets, I could shelve my penchant for anxiety. Then, with the break of day, I would once again allow myself to flashlight the tedious ingredients of fear.
But here, in the Spring, I hear footsteps behind me and I have thoughts of who should and shouldn’t take hold of my belongings when they no longer belong to me. And I count the bearers of my burden and whether they would weather all of this.
The shortness of breath used to be some kind of figment of my imagination, but since aging hasn’t always fostered the reveries I hoped it would, I have come to accept this as the current state of affairs. At night, all I can afford to do is feel sorry for myself. I like to think that someone would want me still, even with my rusty pulleys and my broken branches.
After all, I was still a girl with a bite.
Bite.
I think there is always hope and energy rusted or not it's all attitude.
ReplyDeleteDon't BITE me!!!!!!!!!!!
This is too sad for me. It feels real, which I do not like one bit. But on the other hand, the genuine pain aids. The one thing that can't be true is this:
ReplyDeleteThe shortness of breath used to be some kind of figment of my imagination, but since aging hasn’t always fostered the reveries I hoped it would, I have come to accept this as the current state of affairs.
And you know someone wants you. And you want that someone. So go get him.