The
story of her life is a bowling ball rolling down a steep hill rapidly spinning
faster and faster like helicopter blades flying past every pause and period
consumed by the gluttonous void of reality just as the daylight swallows the
stars that once held wishes but now resemble bullet holes as bright and sharp
as she’s always professed to be but now she’s not so sure.
She
was fashioned in simpler times when the world was made of color; but now it’s
made of atoms in a constant frenzy as restless as the minute hand on the clock
ticking endlessly in circles like the earth’s course around the sun which is no
longer a yellow circle of crayon with lines around it on the kitchen table but
a young star millions of miles away separated from earth by empty space the
space which she yearns for more of in her schedule as the pursuit of interests
is no longer a speculation of the past but a problem of the present in which
priorities paint over the countless dreams she drew across the walls of
childhood.
She
loved the rainbow sheen of bubbles which are now made of paper and filled with
lead; heavy as her wrecking ball heart swinging like a pendulum without the
consistency of a metronome to which uncertain fingers tap violin strings and
rosin smells as pleasant as the pencil shavings used to mark the quiet corners
where inspiration exhausted the colors and the mind grew wary because now there’s
a forum for expressing oneself designed to impress and never digress as it’s
merely a mask to distract her from herself just like the stories she tells to
tear attention away from the monsters under the bed.
Five
dollars is no longer a fortune left under her pillow as payments mount and
barcode lines are as straight as the stiff edges of a box she forgets to think
outside of as the outside world streaks past with each second pronounced like
heavy raindrops darkening the asphalt once laden with chalk dust but now
forgotten under a chauffer’s four wheels and the damp scents of a cold
playground are dismissed as easily as her glazed eyes and creased brow
depicting deep thoughts hovering like hummingbirds braced to dart away when
confronted.
The
bold red of determination and stubbornness and passion replaced the innocent
pink and blue sweet as the word sixty-six which was candy on her tongue but is
now the minimum number of questions on the study guide; the content of which
will be forgotten like every conversation she’s ever had especially now that
good friends are sacrificed for the maintenance of grade point averages and
average days are rehearsed and routines have been fitted to them as precisely
as the shimmering dresses of princesses she used to adore but now it’s plaid
and jeans and low ponytails and short nails and a beautiful mind she can’t
understand let alone explain but a mind of infinite potential and countless
complexities brimming with thoughts like an elaborate series of run-on
sentences…
🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬
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