That feeling is
always waiting just under the skin and can’t be let out, omnipresent beneath
layers of dermis. The one that says, ‘Time’s wasting away. Get out, get out
now. Quick, before it’s too late!’ It’s a scream caught forever just in the
throat, unable to travel the small yet insurmountable distance to the tongue.
And anyplace
would do, really. Any small place, as long as it was yours. Freedom is the
right to choose, but also the right to settle for whatever you want, for
something more or less than present circumstances. To make those decisions that
you know are mistakes before they’re even begun, and to still regret them
later.
Dreams take
the form of faces and places long past, confusing and meshing events together because
at least that’s when you weren’t stagnating, when you were doing something,
even if it was something hated and detested and scorned. It’s not that the
youth don’t realize they’re young; it’s that they fail to understand that
growing up is a process, and not just sitting in the same place, never moving
forward. By its very definition, growing up means dealing with changes, even
those that are so painful they bleed open wounds for the rest of your life.
Far better to
bleed dry than to wither away, slowly rotting like an abandoned piece of attic
refuse.
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