Stream of Consciousness

*I miss the days when I didn’t have anything to do so I became a beach hippie who listened to music all day and made friends with tall skinny dudes who were naturally hippier than I could ever be trying, who would then fall in love with me but I couldn’t reciprocate, but that was okay too.

*I miss the days when I would approach random people and make friends in a heartbeat, and go out drinking all night, or not drinking at all, or smoking hookah till I had a headache, and made people laugh at my spontaneity, because my parents were back home and I wasn’t, and then I would go back and be welcomed with love and fights, mostly fights, but that was okay too.

*I miss the days when I had no problem being alone, taking myself for walks and dancing in the street to the tune of anything on my iPod, when I wasn’t afraid of my own shadow or approaching cars and I smiled at strangers who didn’t smile back, but that was okay too.

*Speaking of approaching cars, I miss the days when I wouldn’t spend hours in my bed thinking up situations in which I would die or contemplating the what if my best friend hadn’t pulled me back away from the car that ran the stop sign, when I wouldn’t be wondering at the miracle of not breaking a single bone, and when I wasn’t dreading a random flashback in which I found myself on the rain-soaked ground again, concussed and confused, and the days when I would jump at every bump in the train, at every texting driver, and sometimes I would forget to be nervous, and that was definitely okay too.

*I miss the days when a connection to God was achieved with a simple word or thought or tear, and would think and think for days and reason out my thoughts and worries and dreams, and sometimes I didn’t like what I came up with regardless of the amount of deliberation so I would ask my friends and family and random acquaintances and people that I admired, and sometimes these loved ones wouldn’t have an answer, but that was okay too.

I miss those days.
I don’t want to be apathetic. And sometimes I’m not.
Writing helps. And sometimes it doesn’t.
Crying helps. And sometimes it doesn’t. Or makes it worse.
Or leads to headache.
Loved ones help. Or sometimes they don’t.
But at least they try.
And that’s okay too.

[Photo taken by me]

6 Comments

  1. missing is a word for someone who desires something once had but is lacking the drive to achieve it, we live in a day where the impossible are possible, where the world is a click away, where you can go anywhere in a heart beats notice… where the only limitation is just oneself

  2. alas, I disagree… we live in the world where the impossible is improbable. Just anyone can get off their respective rear end and make a world a better place (what that means, naturally, does not mean the world is better off, just that the ego has been tickled). Everyone has limits – some imaginary, some real. You can imagine you can fly but dare try – and there… not so much?

    1. You can imagine you can fly, and even try, but it’s that striving towards the impossible that makes us all progress and learn.
      Story: when I was about 3, I took my blanket, tied it around my neck, climbed to the 5th stair leading to the second floor…yelled “Superman” and jumped. My father, unbelievably, managed to catch me mid-flight.
      As a child, I was furious with him for disturbing my flight pattern. As an adult, of course, I realize that he saved me from injury.
      Yet, isn’t it that same sense of “I can do anything” that brings us closer to development? To really living, and not just existing?

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