Jobs and residences mill about my indecision listlessly. Each night I count futures. And somehow that's nothing new.
But I have more to say than just that. That is the news; that is the frequency that I'm (still) vibrating at.
I have one those oldest memories: fucking behemoth trucks were at one length of age the absolute shit, and I mean that in the most endearingly sweetest way possible. Who would have thought that some lifetimes later my green blood might despise the superfluous rumbling axels? Well, wait, that's once again besides the point.
The thing is, my engine enamored era did not slide or fizzle to something new. If there was one childhood trait I embodied like some adolescent demon, it was certainly my finickiness. None the less, I remember why. I remember a lot of silly things, like why I wanted the sand back in my bathing suit, why a singular pea in a bowl of soup was a fucked up appetizer, and I remember why chasing after the peers who ostracized me was important. I don't mention these reasons though, because like trucks, I fear they may be stupendously revealing. Like deeper than marrow even. In these rationale my existence is summarized, annotated, and compiled. And letting that out, giving that primitive darkness air, well I believe that would compromise my character, ideals, and person. I believe I might be full of shit then.
Anyway, let's stick to the truck thing, let's get into that. I don't like that little bit, so let's compromise that one. Let's turn an oldest memory outside in. I want to douse this one in light and stop pretending. I am not better than anyone, I am not special.
He liked trucks too.
He fucking loved them. So, I couldn't. I don't remember the order really. He wanted to like them too, but I couldn't do that. We shared books. One of us had a firetruck for a pretend car. That was a real big deal for me. That was huge.
Do you get it? Do you see where this is going? This is a problem.
Fuck trucks. There were dinosaurs, astronauts, superheroes, dragons. But there couldn't be trucks anymore. I didn't really get dinosaurs, which I think now is pretty funny considering how cool dragons were then (and now). Enough tangents though, at what point did my heart tumble? To this day I wonder if I ceded my ground, whether I conflict was ever pondered. I was never much of a strategist, but I really did like trucks, didn't I?
Eventually I found their flaws. Their slow limitations. Their stupidly bright painted sides. Their utter lack of imagination. Constipated, I grew, I forced new perspective into my timid and tiny consciousness. And maybe I withdrew, but I was stronger. I was smarter.
From the picky presumptuous elitism I corrugated and conceal, I grew and grow. I grew and grow, but I need to find another way. I need to find another way, because I am not special, I am not better than everyone else. There is nothing waiting for me to comprehend, compose, create. There is nothing that separates me from the dust I sneeze at in allergic fits. I am and were forever and always an individual and not much more.
It is time I let this go. It is time I learn to grow without the help of others.
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