Because the imagined security of following a well thought-out plan frightens me more than the idea of true suffering. I take the risk of loss for the chance at love, meaning (truth?).
Yet the miniature human I once occupied never took the risk of a scrape or fall - accidents were truly, actually, purely the result of chance error. Dripping ice cream on a clean white shirt, my Achille's heel to the otherwise composed toddler I held myself up to be.
Upon reflecting on those statements, I experience an epiphany.
They say you shouldn't be too strict with your children because once they're out of your sight, they'll do exactly what they want.
They forget that there's kids like me who do this to themselves.
They say you shouldn't be too strict with your children because once they're out of your sight, they'll do exactly what they want.
They forget that there's kids like me who do this to themselves.
Me, a child, age 11, a thousand times more happy to stretch my mind into and around pages of books filled with stories of foreign worlds, times, realities, rather than reaching out to play with, to understand, children my own age - future colleagues, competitors, lovers, enemies, friends. A status of voluntary solitude determined by a simple disconnect from the other miniature humans. They, completely unfazed by their own sweat in the sun, dirt on their knees, proud bandaids upon ruddy cheeks. Me, a sedentary guru of children's literature upon a temple of shade, growing wiser, and fatter. Loneliness was never something I mourned, at least not at length.
Puberty hits.
And from this point on, the small inklings of romance the Disney corporation and other perversions of the Grimms' fairy tales, planted into my impressionable brain - thirsty to understand the exclusive touch shared between two adults that always leads to my parents changing the TV channel to the local news- begin to break through the topsoil of my naive, idealistic soul, leading me down a yellow brick road of melodramatic notes on wide-ruled paper leaving papercut scarlet letters, quasi-passionate exchanges between lips behind metal lockers (to this day, twisting locks to enter a combination excite funny feelings of anticipation inside me), and the guilt, of rug burn on my boyfriend's knees (why do the trunks of SUVs need rug, anyway?), clouding up my day like the foggy breath lingering on the car windows.
From this point on, the transition from calculation and reason to senseless tears, overwhelming delusions, unrecommended reprioritizations, (un?)necessary sacrifices, betrayals in the name of exploration. A true Cortes.
Puberty hits.
And from this point on, the small inklings of romance the Disney corporation and other perversions of the Grimms' fairy tales, planted into my impressionable brain - thirsty to understand the exclusive touch shared between two adults that always leads to my parents changing the TV channel to the local news- begin to break through the topsoil of my naive, idealistic soul, leading me down a yellow brick road of melodramatic notes on wide-ruled paper leaving papercut scarlet letters, quasi-passionate exchanges between lips behind metal lockers (to this day, twisting locks to enter a combination excite funny feelings of anticipation inside me), and the guilt, of rug burn on my boyfriend's knees (why do the trunks of SUVs need rug, anyway?), clouding up my day like the foggy breath lingering on the car windows.
From this point on, the transition from calculation and reason to senseless tears, overwhelming delusions, unrecommended reprioritizations, (un?)necessary sacrifices, betrayals in the name of exploration. A true Cortes.
