A Child

The truest state of myself is always in my memories. Who I am now is some contorted form that the world made. I would have never chose this, my life. My life simply chose me.

When we were younger we had little or no worries. At least that’s what I remember, and memories are king. I don’t think about the loneliness, the fear, the deep longing to be anywhere, anytime but there. Those things never happened. That blue hot wheel never got super glued to my hand. The time of childhood was magical, if only we could go back. I’m not saying that I want to be childish.

Okay, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Being old is hard and there’s no end in sight. There isn’t anyone there. It’s the nearest I’ve come to the cold vacuum of space and survived. If only there was, some heat, some light, someone to know. Then I could live; Then I could be more than a lump in the currents of the walking dead.

When I think about these things I oscillate between three and fifty-nine years old. There’s a sadness that comes alive to me. It’s almost unbearably painful, but there’s a small seed of hope that, when I feel it, I might be more than an impossible astronaut floating in the deep of space. A small seed of hope that I’m still alive inside.