Remember April and May, and also early summer–when I got super poetic and flowery? During that time, my worst fear was of becoming “Boring Adult.” One who just goes about life apathetically, and who appears bored and unexcited. Going through the motions. Wanting to do nothing but lay in bed all day. Complaining about work.
With each passing day, I find myself slowly becoming more and more like Boring Adult. You know, the “let’s not and say we did” attitude. Is this what adulthood is like? If it is, I want a one-way ticket to Neverland.
I really want it to be the summer again. I want to sit out on my swing and start crying at how beautiful nature is. Why is that not happening? Has Boring Adult taken hold of me once again? Not Boring Adult. Oh please, not Boring Adult. I want everything to be poetry again!
Here is a blog quote from May 30th (the day after my fourteenth birthday):
“Everything can be made into poetry. From the bothersome city traffic to the soft neigh of the country horse, and the dreamy moonlit sky to the soft, wormy dirt, there are hidden morsels of wonder everywhere. Isn’t that just splendid? Hidden morsels of wonder. If we are the hunters, searching for nourishment, we must look deeper into the everyday occurrences and objects we so often take for granted.”
Ha! Easy for you to say, old self. The deeper I look into everyday occurrences, the more frustrated I become that I can’t just pull poetry out of nowhere and get that breathtaking feeling like I used to. Poetry was how I defined myself as a human being. If I can’t tap into what defines me as me, who am I?
This whole year has come full circle. Well, not entirely. At least I have awesome friends, and I’m not the abrasive, “I want to kill you all” person I used to be. I’m not quite so angry or full of the “what monster have I become” crap. There are no demons within me, nor monsters or anything like that. Why? That would be implying that this–this whatever I’m going through–is foreign. It is not foreign, but rather familiar. I am not new here. I know my way around the block–every way except one: the way out.
Oh. That sounded a little too angsty, didn’t it? I’m not that angsty, am I? Lord. Please don’t be mushy with me. Please don’t break out the hugs and the it-gets-better talks and the I’m-here-for-yous. Please. Don’t even start that.