Disclaimer: I disclaim
~*~*~*~*~
Last night I packed up all my childhood belongings and put them on the curb of for the garbage truck. My costumes, my bears (Toby insisted he was too old for them)...my mother's pictures.
I know I could have kept them- packed them up somewhere. But what's the point in clinging on to things that were lost even before you realized it?
People say growing up is hard to do. At first it is, until you muster up the courage to purge yourself of the memories, dreams and hopes you clung to while playing on the swing set at the local park, watching the clouds move and listening to the wind rustle the trees.
Life was so much simpler as a child. I had my fantasies- not all involving a Goblin King and a seemingly impossible Labyrinth. I wanted to be an actress. That dream crumbled when my mother left. A writer was an option, then an artist- but I'm nothing more than mediocre at anything I do.
As a child I had sworn to myself I would never spend my life sitting behind a desk-identical to all the others- in a cubicle- identical to all the others- on a floor of a building- identical to all the others- living some meaningless sort of existence- identical to all the others.
But that's where I'm headed. It's all I can do to keep myself from sobbing theatrically on someone's shoulder.
Or-even worse- I can sit here, feeling sorry for myself, contemplating the meaning of life and regretting a childhood that I can feel slipping slowly through my fingers.
Or I could slip into my father's and Karen's room and take a bottle of sleeping pills so that I won't wake up tomorrow morning, not having to face the meaningless life that I see laid out before my very eyes.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
Or is it? No. I don't have the strength to do something like that. I can't do anything but sit here and watch the rain pour down upon my childhood, discarded alongside yesterday's leftovers and Dad's smelly old gym shoes.
There was once a time when I saw pictures in the clouds. All I see now are molecules of condensed water vapor waiting to pour down upon someone's parade.
I watch as the large cardboard box holding my belongings crumbles, spilling its contents into the street, flowing along the puddles, soaking, falling apart, being ruined.
All I want is a Labyrinth, a Goblin King and a shiny crystal orb representing my dreams.
But we don't always get what we want.
~*~*~*~*~
Last night I packed up all my childhood belongings and put them on the curb of for the garbage truck. My costumes, my bears (Toby insisted he was too old for them)...my mother's pictures.
I know I could have kept them- packed them up somewhere. But what's the point in clinging on to things that were lost even before you realized it?
People say growing up is hard to do. At first it is, until you muster up the courage to purge yourself of the memories, dreams and hopes you clung to while playing on the swing set at the local park, watching the clouds move and listening to the wind rustle the trees.
Life was so much simpler as a child. I had my fantasies- not all involving a Goblin King and a seemingly impossible Labyrinth. I wanted to be an actress. That dream crumbled when my mother left. A writer was an option, then an artist- but I'm nothing more than mediocre at anything I do.
As a child I had sworn to myself I would never spend my life sitting behind a desk-identical to all the others- in a cubicle- identical to all the others- on a floor of a building- identical to all the others- living some meaningless sort of existence- identical to all the others.
But that's where I'm headed. It's all I can do to keep myself from sobbing theatrically on someone's shoulder.
Or-even worse- I can sit here, feeling sorry for myself, contemplating the meaning of life and regretting a childhood that I can feel slipping slowly through my fingers.
Or I could slip into my father's and Karen's room and take a bottle of sleeping pills so that I won't wake up tomorrow morning, not having to face the meaningless life that I see laid out before my very eyes.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
Or is it? No. I don't have the strength to do something like that. I can't do anything but sit here and watch the rain pour down upon my childhood, discarded alongside yesterday's leftovers and Dad's smelly old gym shoes.
There was once a time when I saw pictures in the clouds. All I see now are molecules of condensed water vapor waiting to pour down upon someone's parade.
I watch as the large cardboard box holding my belongings crumbles, spilling its contents into the street, flowing along the puddles, soaking, falling apart, being ruined.
All I want is a Labyrinth, a Goblin King and a shiny crystal orb representing my dreams.
But we don't always get what we want.
