I am not the smartest or the bravest person. I am not the tallest inside and many times I find myself running late. I worry about the world and the people in it, and I eat all the things; mostly cake. But I'm a good person, and if that's the only choice I ever manage to keep for the rest of my life, then I can live with that.
Yet, lately it feels like life is simply about clinging onto something, anything to give us a reason to keep going. Even as I sit here typing, I know that my purpose here is driven solely by this eternal reaching, and the cycle of letting go of what I once had. I wonder what happens when I don't want to dance for this theatre anymore.
It has been too long since I've tried to speculate my inner working on the page. I think I let go of the idea that my words were worth the print. Tonight however, I am writing for me. It doesn't matter what anyone has to say about that. Please go on, critique my work, and tell me it is a trashy piece of all the things wrong in the world today. I want to hear your voice.
I look only at the screen as I write, because looking at my body reminds me that I am something more than the letters forming on the screen: Finger tips, clothing, a temperature to this body, and the itch on my left arm. These are the things that help make up for me.
If I'm to be completely honest, there is a lump in my throat, and a tension to my core. These mediocre words are only forming the distraction from the things which I beg reality to release me from. I beg so hard that I even imagine a different ending.
There is knock on my door, which was strange, because everyone was asleep the last time I checked. My grandmother was the only person who could knock on my bedroom door at night, yet she always bellowed out that she was there waiting, and this person was decidedly quiet.
I stare at the door as another quiet few taps across the wood spike a frown of concern over my forehead. However, I stand up and open my bedroom door, because surely it could only be granny. A robber would only knock my door down, and since no one else had entrance to my bedroom door, it could only be her.
I look over at the two mugs, one of which was half filled with tea, and then sigh knowingly. She wouldn't be pleased, but she would have to deal. I slowly move towards my door, preparing for a lecture on the dishes, and turn that rusty looking excuse for a door nob all the way around.
That's when I saw him. Heartbreakingly close, the boy I had always dreamed would come was standing at my door, in my home, staring at me like I knew he would always stare. Now maybe I shouldn't have cried at this moment, but the emotion of seeing his eyes looking down on me once again had just about choked me.
"Hey," he spoke gently, understanding the pained expression across my face. "Hey," I responded with difficulty. He stepped inside my room; I stepped back. He shut the door then turned to look at my nervous figure; I looked at my pink and grey striped slippers. It was Zack.
"I couldn't not come," he spoke in a deeply touching manner, "I know about the thing."
