Eloquence Is Useless

Do not tell me these stories will mean nothing to me when I “grow up”

Do not tell me I would be better off drifting into a mindless stupor alongside you as “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” flashes before our slack-jawed, drool-encrusted faces, that “Big Brother” will teach me anything about being a better big sister, that I could possibly learn more from “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader” than I could from fifth-grade media. Do not tell me that these characters are nothing to me, that their impact upon the world and upon the universe is as negligible as a foot-step or eye-blink.

Do not tell me these things.

Because I have learned more from these time-torn war-weary paper-bound pages than I have ever learned from a home improvement magazine.

And I have been been taught more about good and evil from these “kid’s shows” than I have ever been force-fed from those history books penned by the victors of long-fought and long-abandoned quarrels.

If to “grow up” and “stop pretending” is to lose my mind to the clamor and strife of life, if to “live in the real world” is to no longer recognize what is “good” and what is “evil”, trapped in the grey-area limbo of “maturity”?

I do not want it.

I am content to sit, curled in the sunlit chair by my bedside, overlooking our garden, with my nose buried two inches and a hundred thousand miles away.

Because these people have been my friends when I was friendless, my solace in mighty storm, my comfort when the night-things sunk their greedy claws under my eyelids and wrenched them open, again and again.

So do not tell me these stories will mean nothing.