Halves
Half, it's neither one thing or another. It sits directly in the middle, unassuming and alone. Half-remembered, half-mentioned, half-conscious, half-understanding, all these things leave a portion of ourselves reaching for the resolution, the ending. Without the end we are left suspended, unable to go forward nor back.
I live in a world of Halves. There is nothing in my life that is whole, half a father, portion of a friend, a fraction of myself. Sports leave me unfulfilled, always working, pushing forward, always room for improvement, never completed. Yet, they allow me a hold on the world that nothing else has. School is only a stepping stone to adulthood, where life is run by incompletes. Knowledge only leads to greater understanding of stupidity, of self-doubt. Ignorance is bliss, Knowledge is power, but what about those in the middle? Those floundering for some foot-hold in the delicate balance of the world who don't want much, only to survive, to see it through to the end? Who ever thinks about those people? Who considers us Halves?
I am not stupid, I say this to myself over and over. I know it, deep in my soul where I also know that I am not smart either. I have to work for everything, for my grades, for my sports, for my friends.
Practice, over and over, drill yourself again! Remember a glass, half a liquid inside sitting forlornly on the kitchen table, accusing you of failure, of success.
"Say, kid, how much milk do you think is in that glass?"
Not half empty, for that implies pessimism, of the sensation of life draining you away until all that is left if a husk of a boy. Nor half-full, which is optimism, which drops a lead weight of expectations on your shoulders, crushing you to the ground. Half.
"Half what?"
Shrug. Half. A boundary of in-between that allows you to walk the line, balancing invisibly between the two. Meet expectations, don't exceed. Be the bully, be the comedy, be the act that allows you to fade into the background, your fears unnoticed.
For really, who thinks of Halves when they have children bleeding on the carpet of self-inflicted wounds. Who stops to think of those in-between when they have the ones standing proud in the lime-light of their achievements.
Do you think of us?
"Out of curiosity, Kevin. How much liquid would you say is in that glass?"
Of me?