Thoughts of a Girl

if only I could hear it too.

There is a world where I did not leave her sitting there, looking as though the floor fell out from under her. There is a world where we danced through life, holding onto each other like leaves on a branch in an eternal Spring. There is a world where we leaned on each other as the waves of life crashed into us and we refused to be dragged under. But I live in the world where I told her it was too much, where I said it wasn’t her, it was me, where I ran from our world leaving it to drift off, forever lost to the dark abyss of What Could Have Been.

The world is different, at night. The darkness warm, soft, surrounding, fitting into every curve, every sharp angle. Some describe morning-darkness the same as night-darkness. But they are so, so different. Night-darkness is welcoming, it is kind, it is a whisper full of possibilities welcoming you into the world of shadows. Morning-darkness is impatient, waiting for the sun, waiting to skitter away to the sides of buildings and hide behind people. It is a terrified murmur, expectant, waiting for the shoe to fall. But in night-darkness, you can grow brave, you can be who you want, the possibilities are endless. In night-darkness, the world truly comes to life.

I don’t understand the way people shove off the world like a clammy jacket. The way they can just turn the other cheek without response. When it comes to fight, flight, or freeze, I’m all three. I freeze in place, unable to move out of my rage. I fight from that position, unmoving, stubborn to the end. And then I flee, after I’ve drawn my enemy to a stalemate. The anger leaves me, then. Everything leaves me, if I’m being honest. All the strength bleeds from my body like blood gushing from a wound. And, yet, it stays with me. The anger might be outside my body, but it’s always there, a dark cloud. I may forget about it, for a time, but it’s always there. Right within my grasp, just waiting for a moment to become free once more.

The shadows cling to me. Sometimes, they wrap me in an embrace, warm and comforting. It too often turns into a choke hold, promising something wicked if I move. I try to shake them off, but they stay. They always stay. I have come to be weary, never wanting to walk into the dark, for fear that it will be less than welcoming. But do so, still. I have no choice. The darkness is my domain, after all. I made sure of that. 

I could live in silence. Not true silence, no one could truly bare that. But the silence that comes with dusk, that I would live with. The silence that somehow permeates the air with sounds that no one can truly hear. The silence that comes when you’re sitting with someone you love simply being together. The silence that comes after a fight, the silence that comes after a long day when you would give anything to fall asleep right then and there. These are the silences which speak the most words, the silences which make life truly worth living.

I love the way the sun sets. The soft orange glow floods over everything, it casts long shadows, and brings the day to a close. The clouds glow with pinks, oranges, and purples, looking like cotton candy in the sky. And, best of all, I love the beginning of night. Night, where I can put away the troubles of the day, and finally rest. Where I can take off any mask or facade I might have been putting on and simply be me, for no one but myself. 

I used to belive that my stretch marks were scars. I had an overactive imagination, then. I was young, and didn’t yet know of the stories our skin lays out for others to read. The stories I made up for myself were ones of magic, and secret battles wiped from my mind. And, yet, I wasn’t far off of the truth. Stretch marks are scars, won from sudden growth, sudden change, our bodies becoming stronger. From giving birth, growing up, gaining muscle, gaining wisdom, gaining life, and so much more. Our skin tells a story, not one to be ashamed of, but one to show off, proudly. It is a way for us to silently say that we are here, and we will always become stronger. Stronger than anyone could ever know.

I don’t know why I made such a mountain. The issue wasn’t even a molehill, just something small, barely a pinch of sand a child let drop from their fingers, which then happened to settle into a pile. And, yet, I didn’t stand down. I couldn't stand down. Out of this insignificant pinprick of sand on a beach, I managed to make an Everest. And I continue to do it again, and again, and again. Maybe it is my fate. For my pride to get in the way. For it to beat at relationships until they are only skeletons, held to the side of a mountain by nothing more than a cold, icy grip. But it is not my chosen fate. One day, I hope to be able to spit in the face of my pride and and tell it that I will pick my battles. But that day is far in the future, I’m afraid. Someday, though. Someday, I will have the strength to let that insignificant pile of sand blow away into the wind.

I know it sounds silly, but just dance sometimes. Close the door, play some music (it’s okay if it’s just in your head, it’s just for you anyway) and dance. Dance without thinking, without worrying about what the world thinks. Whether it’s just a little bit of head bopping, ballet, full on hip-hop, or something in between, it’s worth it. Trust me.

Why do we look down on fantasy? Scholars dismiss it as daydreaming, teachers claim that it’s not “literature”. And yet, I have lived hundreds of lives. I have seen the perspectives of countless people, and learned hundreds of lessons. I have seen life and death, destruction and healing, war and peace. I have learned so much, all in worlds of fiction. These characters may not be real, but they are real to me. They are my friends, my teachers, and my enemies. I combat my demons as they confront theirs, and I learn so much more about myself and others than I would reading another one of Shakespeare’s plays. And yet, we still dismiss it as childish. Just because something isn’t in the “real world” doesn’t mean that there is nothing to learn.

Why do I feel guilty? I’ve done nothing wrong, though maybe that’s the problem. I’ve lived my life, but that’s it. I’ve simply lived my life. No one else’s. I haven’t done anything of meaning, when so many people are suffering. I see those who are suffering injustice, and yet I do nothing. I suppose I do things in small ways, I educate myself, I push for justice and equality in my school, but that does nothing in the long run. Our world is melting, my country divided, the world beginning to turn on eachother. And yet, here I am, sitting in a comfortable chair, in a comfortable house, in a comfortable neighborhood, writing something I’m not even sure counts as poetry.