I Wish We Were All Rose-colored Too

I realize now that it was a book about me dealing with depression before I even knew it. Looking back at how blatant the projecting was, it’s obvious now. It wasn’t then.

In the story, the middle-generation people are lost. They’re apathetic. They’re just a placeholder. The only job they have is to keep the ship running, have kids, and die. As the middle generation of people began becoming adults, suicide rates were skyrocketing. Crime and drug rates were jumping. This generation was completely apathetic because they felt that they had no use.

In the story, a small group of people in the middle-generation create the Weather Project. They turn the ship into a terrarium. They make magnificent gardens and take the DNA of animals they took with them and recreate them and they make this cold, metal spaceship that they have to live their entire lives on into a home. They take what little they have and they break it and rearrange it into something beautiful. They take this radical idea and turn the ship into a wonderful jungle of trees and birds and sunshine.

And I realize now how much it reflects my state of mind as I transitioned from a child into an adult while dealing with depression. You always hear “it gets better” and “when you’re older things will be easier” and I was so sick of waiting for it to get better. I was in the middle-generation stage. And I was sick of it. I was so sick of waiting.

When I was in highschool I didn’t know how to end the story. I didn’t know how to have a happy ending. I didn’t have the life experience then to finish the story in a meaningful way. I didn’t know how to make it better for these middle-generation characters.

But now that I’m older, I’m learning. That if you sit and wait for things to get better, it never will. You have to take your life and break it apart and rearrange it into something beautiful. You have to make the cold metal ship into the garden that you deserve. You have to make your own meaning. You have to plant your own garden.

I. Because the poem says so I cannot choose my death, I will have to wait for it to happen on its own volition. I am resigned to my fate: I cannot argue what has been already written for me. I will live; I will write; I will die when death is due.

II. On occasion, your memory startles me, having quickly  diffused, unrecognisable.  I forget your forms, fingers, forgivings, and so on– sick with forgetting, I go even  further. And then! Like the glint of a month: a sound that resembles yours:  launching me into shock that holds me and holds me still and holds me until I can no longer think to swim. 

III. I had asked you to write to me and in waiting for your response I discovered many rituals: washing dishes, ironing clothes,  changing the sheets over and over, watering the plants while busy in song, mending the house, whatever it takes to keep  this small body in action, moving, mindless, pause this small heart, ignore its demands, more dishes to wash, more clothes, more plants, more birds outside my window to watch, who were you at all, more bottles to fill, cats to feed, will you ever return, tables to dust, walks to take, hair to brush, I am so  much in love, will you ever know what words to say, the kitchen, the garden, the wings and lungs, the shoes, the spoons, so on.

IV. You do not write back. But at least now the house is clean and the sun is set and this small body with its small heart can think to rest.

V. Over the water I carry a little flame of sound: ours.

Although I do not wish to live, I am glad to  while it flickers, and although I am startled,

best of sparknotes part 3

Bonus:

haha what. this sounds so dumb. how is this even supposed to–

“the idea is for players to look forward to waking up every morning”

Truth or dare? We asked fans on Tumblr to play the classic party game with TOMORROW X TOGETHER during their time in LA for their first ever showcase tour.

Check out our video with the group for their answers to Qs and reactions to dares from @jessixabxla02, @madyashlee, and @1aehyun.

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