Such Lots of Stories

I painted delicate shimmering scales on my fingers and bound my feet in a warrior’s sandals, as if preparing for battle this morning in the early light. More often now, it seems I need to steel myself for the day to come. It is as if I’ve grown into a mermaid - delicate, fragile, and so utterly alone. I would like nothing better than to dissolve into foam, to disappear obscure and unknown. That never seems to be the case. Walking down the street, people still stop me with quick, half-smiles - a sign of our former camaraderie that they would rather forget. Though I‘m sure these gestures are given in kindness, they break me a little inside every time. If only I could be forgotten.

I feel so blatantly obvious, like there is nowhere to hide, yet still they divert their eyes. In some eastern cultures, there is a class of people lower than all others - untouchables. They are not spoken to or looked at, and they are forced to do the most lowly and demeaning work for those above them in class and position. It’s as if I’m untouchable. I’m not sure I want to be anything else though. What if I were to have friends and lovers and laughter and grace? What if I was desirable and confident? How could I be the same person who I’ve always known myself to be? It would be as if I never existed as all.  

Oh I’m sorry, Peter. This is sad, solemn talk which you have no interest in. You want to speak of fun times and adventures and perilous sword fight and good little boys triumphing over evil old codfish. I don’t know why I would think to bother you with any of my dreadful feelings. What good are feelings anyway? Let us rid ourselves of such grown-up nonsense and fill the void with happy thoughts and pixie dust and marvelous games and late night that blend swiftly into sleepy mornings. Let us fly and fight and feast and only ever worry about having more fun tomorrow than we did today. 

I should still like to fade away though if ever there should be a time when I can no longer hold a single happy thought. When my heart is so full of sorrow that I can no longer soar, let me fall between the waves to become one with all things dark and mysterious. Let my heavy heart sink me down beneath the waves so that I shall no longer suffer sidelong glances or worry about how others find me and if I am lacking. Dear, sweet Peter, please then just let me disappear and ne’er be heard from again.

My room is littered with half-finished letters and dried ink wells, the ghosts of stories I’ll never remember, the charming anecdotes you just had to be there to get, and the numerous misadventures I had wanted so desperately to share.

It’s not that I don’t care enough to finish them. It’s not that I didn’t have the words. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. (We both know I will always talk of myself if anyone would give me the time. I would drown in a puddle if you’d let me.) The problem is that I’m scared.

What if this is the last time I drop everything to go a hundred mile away when a friend says they miss me? What if I never go to Europe again? What if I never do anything real or fun or amazing? Or worse yet, what if I do and it means nothing to me?

I’m terrified of myself and the future and all those sordid things. 

I wish so desperately to be saved, but I don’t think anyone could even if they cared. I don’t think anyone loves me anymore. I know why they wouldn’t. How could they? I’ve worked so hard to become someone completely self-sufficient again and in doing so forgot how to be a friend.

I want to be saved. Please, deliver me. Make me someone new. Make me someone worth loving or make me disappear entirely, because I don’t know what to do, and I don’t want to be alone anymore.

I hate worrying about grownup things, but they seem to plague me incessantly. Things like never having enough money or my marks in school or whether or not my mother will lose her house. I just feel like the world is always tumbling down and down and out of my reach with my stomach and heart chasing right behind it.

I’m sure you can never remember a time when you felt hopeless or lost. It’s all just adventures and mischief for you. That just makes it a hundred times harder for me though, because I feel almost selfish for being anything but happy. It is so very hard to be happy all the time though, Peter. It is so very hard because not everyone can simply forget as you do.

Whenever anything is unpleasant, whenever an adventure is through, whenever you smile or laugh or play, whenever you are hurt or ashamed, whenever life happens, you simply forget. You forget because forgetting means never having to learn and never learning from your experiences means never having to growing up.

Sometimes I wonder (if I could) whether I would choose to simply forget as you do, but there are these moments every once and again when I think to myself, “I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for a moment like this.” And sometimes (just sometimes) I think maybe these memories are worth all the bad times in between, maybe these are worth keeping.

I’ll just wait until October, please and thank you. I won’t let you control my life!

P.S. So, I lied. After four cups of the blackest tea, endless hours of tumblr stalking for ‘clues,’ and refreshing the pottermore page until my fingers bled, I realized my previous statement might be invalid. Honestly though, I don’t mind, because I got an account! My life is nothing but contentment and that slight hangover from waking up far too soon after staying up far too early.

Can you explain to me how the right food can fill your soul, how a child’s fleeting smile can make the world seem brighter, or how on some days you can be perfectly content while on others the call of the void is just so heart-wrenchingly overwhelming that you aren’t sure you can ignore it any longer?

I can’t make any sense of it.

Why is beauty so fleeting while scars last a lifetime? What makes some people’s street corners covered in roses while others can only see dilapidation and decay? And will I ever wake up and find that no matter what happens I can honestly be happy and content (just being alive) instead of having to fake my way through life all the time?

I’m sure you think I’m a fool for these silly inquires, because I just can’t see you ever worrying about such things. You see what you feel and you feel as you should. You forget what isn’t worth remembering and love everything. You’re exactly as I would be if I could.

Do you remember when I was young and nothing really mattered? Maybe one would fret over how much trouble an ink-splotch on the carpet or a poor grade on a spelling quiz would cause, but any worries were simply forgotten by the time one’s head hit the pillow at day’s end. 

Now all I do is fret. 

As I’ve gotten old, I have realized how shallow the world is. Everything is black or white, right or wrong, good or poor, nonsense or prudent. There is no depth, nor is there any room for grays or circumstances or make-believes. Everything must be exactly what it seems.

I don’t think I’m cut out for it, really. I’m far too fond of shenanigans and scraped knees and just squeezing by to ever pass for any sort of proper adult. Maybe that’s the rub though. Maybe being proper isn’t for me. As it’s said, “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”