Remember how our futures used to be so far away that not even the tipiest part of our toes on our spindly legs could touch them? Remember how “growing up” held no boundaries, no limitations?
Like, yeah, when I grow up, I’m gonna be a rock star. Or maybe an astronaut. Because in those days student loans weren’t even thoughts in our brains and the difference between a rock star and an astronaut was the direction of our dandelion wishes- and maybe that they wore different outfits.
And remember our first fight? It was in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, in the bed of my dad’s truck, and we yelled so hard our voices gave out but our fists still screamed with petty rivalries. Remember how our worst nightmare was a bad hair day?
I mean, because, growing up there was no clamp on our shoulder blade wings, no concept of time except for the fact that we lost a tooth here and there and on that playground swing set…man, we were gods.
Gods. Like swimming pools were the realms of our creation and here I could fuse your heels to make you a mermaid tail in your favorite color. And then with age our parents told us to get sober- we had been drunk on ignorance and bliss for too long. So we worried and we worked and we hustled our asses off, only to look back and see that in fact, we had not gone the distance.
We got test results back that slapped us in the face, told us we would never be able to do this. Do you remember those ramen noodle days? And the nights where our bodies clung so tight together, stuck skin from sweat and an absolute desperation to get rid of this loneliness. To feel the solid breath coming from a lover, a reassurance like, hey, you made it this far.
Like- fuck. We listen too often when they tell us to grow up. Cast away our innocence, our blind perseverance towards reckless dreams in favor of a checking account. Of a safe future. As if daydreaming about being the first kid on Jupiter was ever a bad thing. As if the ability to stand again when we’ve already fucked up, to scrape our knees but keep running, were ever wrong.
I’m telling you, we have to march ourselves to a different song. This rhythm of reality, of adulthood…it’s tearing us up. You see the paper cuts. The dark circles under your classmates eyes, the lines against your own wrist, the tear stains on your biology teacher’s cheeks. We cannot keep dancing through the game of monotony.
So let your dreams be every day things. Reminiscing in the past will only break apart your heart strings. We have to press on. With the gusto of a little kid, the stubborness of your neice or your nephew. I urge you…do not rob yourself like I did.
Mold shapes out of clouds. Imagine your hands sinking in to the murky depths of the Milky Way, your lungs filling with stardust every time they expand. There is innocence in the small things.
You wanna be a pop star? Be one. Because in life we only get one shot. And we can’t waste any more time regretting the things we’re not.
