Dear Me

Dear future self;   By now this letter is probably on a shelf, or it must be collecting dust in a memory box that’s chalk full of our past. It’s funny that mom thinks it can last forever with the right camera. Like she’s creating a sculpture out of what we’ve done and a culture for what’s to come.

Dear little me;   Do you ever notice how everyone in your life is a whittle, and you’re the piece of wood? Like they all feel like they should carve their opinions into you? Do you think they know that the carvings don’t go away? And they’re just starving for the satisfaction of inflicting themselves on someone else.

Everyone’s got their crew of mockingbirds, armed with chisels and prepared to climb the hills to mark their words of disgust . The way they act, they must think they’re the heroes while making everyone around the, feel like zeroes, that maybe painting themselves a colorful figure would make the rest of us feel like white crayons. Yes, Regina George, your Bronze beats my Gold if it bullies it enough.

All these people around us are breaking us, they think they’re making us strong well are you strong yet? Do you feel like you belong yet?

No - Because people like Regina George will always gorge themselves on the opportunity to kill.   You know, I feel stuck in the days I used to know. Like I’m constantly in tow with my past. Like I’m living in a shadow of the plateau that is my childhood.  Like knife has been held at my throat, holding me hostage in place where my life has been taunting me. As if some mysterious force is not wanting me to move on.

I don’t know how to let go.  
Please, by all means change the subject.  I’m yearning to know what you are learning in the philosophical life of a second grader.

Ok, me 2.0, get ready.In school we are learning about the steps to gardening.  Mrs. Parsons is pardoning us from recess and giving us all the pieces to grow a plant.  And I am making the observation that maybe people are like plants. Maybe who we are depends on our stance in the world. What we need to survive, the place we’re derived from,  and even what kind of plant we are. Close your eyes.

Behold the sunflower, who spends every waking hour baking in the sun, always looking at the brighter picture.   Now bestow your eyes upon the rose, a delicate pose of beauty that grow the devil horns, meant to keep everyone at bay, even if they want to stay.

Then we have our weeds, who are seeds that grow disaster and multiply faster than any good could ever do.

Can you see them? Can you picture these people in your mind? Can you find the similarities between them?

They are us.  They represent the parts of us that others resent.  They show the growth, from weak to strong. They show that we belong.  They show that we all need something to survive. The rose cannot thrive without water, even if it means letting someone close.  The sunflower needs a constant dose of the sun, and weeds steal what he needs from other plants. Each of these has a chance to impact whoever is around them. They have a choice to do good, or to cause mayhem.  We are all just seeds. Left to do the deeds on this earth that somehow amount to our worth while we’re pitted against everyone else. Constantly in beauty pageants, always going off on tangents on your success as if it gives you access to be the kind of person who will ditch all your friends and act like a b...witch.

So yes, we are always growing, always showing signs of change and the day we’re done will be the day that we die.  

And yes, we are pieces of wood, where everything that happens stays with us, and we will pay for our marks through whatever road we travel.

The End