god is a woman

What am I when I’m not simply potential?

Death isn’t something I think about very much. It’s inevitable and a normal part of life, so really what’s the point? There’s nothing I can do about it, just like there’s nothing I can do about the Universe expanding or the fact that our sun will eventually literally blow up in all our faces (and to think the Beatles wrote a song about you, ye ungrateful wench) and the Earth will become a flaming pile of destruction (metaphorically though, we’re already there).

I do, however, think about getting old. Which also happens to be inevitable and a normal part of life but the difference, in this case, is that I know what it’s like. I have physical, documented evidence of what it’s like to grow old, i.e. (from what I’ve seen) mostly bad hips and saying, “I’m too damn old for this”. Maybe shaking your fists at rowdy teenagers, I don’t know.

Point is, growing old bothers me.

What will I do when I don’t have my entire life ahead of me. What am I when I’m not young and idealistic (lolololol maybe idealistic isn’t the word. what do you call people who are disappointed about the glass being only half full but also intensely fearful of the glass breaking, leaving dangerous shards all over the carpet? what do you call them? losers? idk)

What am I when I’m not simply potential?

I suppose what I’m really asking is what am I when I’m not allowed to make mistakes anymore. What am I when the things I set out to do have been done or irreversibly not done depending on where life takes me. What am I when something I do wrong has consequences that reach far into the future (because everybody knows you get an entirely new identity once you turn twenty and your past is more or less erased and so nothing you’ve done till then matters. It’s why the underworld is crawling with pre-pubescent crime syndicates).

wHaT AM i.

A bird? A plane? Two bipedal cats in a trench coat trying to sneak into the opera?

lgbtq+ icon whom no one knows and whose orientation is actually represented by ‘+’???

Growing old under protest? (she says at eighteen. which, as you all know, is positively ancient.)

 

~fin~

About the title:
She’s not, actually.
He’s not a man either.
He just is. She doesn’t subscribe to the gender binary. It’s just some translation problems, from what I understand.

Just like ships aren’t women. But the Titanic still broke your little adolescent heart in history class, didn’t she? (the ship, I mean, not the movie the movie THERE WERE OTHER PIECES OF SUITABLE DEBRIS HE COULD HAVE FLOATED ON IF NOT WITH ROSE THAT SELF-SACRIFICING LITTLE OLD STYLE STEP DANCING EARLY GATSBY FOOL)

~fin2~

gif used.

~fin3~

When You Don’t Always Recognize Yourself

Perhaps it means nothing to you. You’ve learned to be okay with it and you no longer fight. You were never an outwardly passionate person to begin with, but you did believe in stuff. It made you who you are. Your mother called you a fairytale baby; a firm believer in faeries and magic and bubbles. But at the same time you knew where the stories ended and where reality began. You also understood that reality was a fluid concept; everyone was entitled to their own version of it. Perhaps that is what made you so good at weaving stories. Grand sentences and beautiful tales conjured up late at night to help your younger sister sleep. You saw the sparkle in her eye, the excited questions, that satisfied drowsy smile at the end of it. And the next day you could do it all over again.

People thought you were a bubbly person, you knew otherwise. Your mother feared you lived in a land of fairytales and would end up being hurt by the Big Bad World. Again, you knew otherwise. You weaved stories and so knew it wasn’t real. You told of happy endings and castles while being painfully aware of suicides and abrupt ends. You were rooted in reality while still having the privilege of floating away from it from time to time. You knew all the ways things could go wrong but believed in all the times they won’t. You had beliefs and ideals and the occasional pretty bubble. You fought for people, for those beliefs. Fought against the concept of evil and its incidence. You believed people to be fundamentally good, no matter how naive others thought that made you.

Nowadays you tell friends that people are selfish. You don’t truly believe that, you know you don’t, but you say it anyway. Because it’s the smart thing to do. Terrible things happen in the world making it a terrible place filled with terrible people. You’ve met a few. You’ve met truly evil people who made your blood crawl and your eyes fill up in despair because you couldn’t bear the level of hatred you felt for that human being. You never believed in the concept of hate. And for a while, after meeting them and finding out the horrible things they’ve thought, you forgave them. Or you simply didn’t believe anybody capable of such thoughts. You’ve accepted it now. And so you tell your friends that people are selfish and mean. You don’t believe that. But you’re okay with saying it, because that is who you are now. You have fewer beliefs than you did before. You haven’t made up a bedtime story for your younger sister for a long while now. Her eyes still sparkle and you look at it and pray to God that never goes away. Your mother says she’s a fairytale baby too, just like her oldest sister. And you see it. You see it in the way she looks up at the night sky with you on the days you come out of your room, in the way she flips her pretend hair this way and that and talks in a strange language, in the way she treats her toys like they’re actual living beings—in the way she believes them to be actual living beings. In the way she believes in magic while still being able to question the absurd. You’ve gotten rusty at telling her about fairies and you realize she doesn’t believe in half the things she used to. When you told her stories. You look at that and think maybe it’s a good thing.

Perhaps it meant nothing to you. The stories and the belief and the magic. Maybe you feel silly talking about spells and fantasies. And maybe that’s what’s killing you. You can’t write stories anymore. You haven’t in a long while. Not happy ones anyway. You write of sick mothers and poetic deaths. You tell yourself that’s what you should be writing anyway because it’s the best kind of beautiful there is: tragic and grown up. You’re a sham.

You believe in people being fundamentally good and you believe in fairies in the garden. Or maybe you actually don’t. Maybe it truly means nothing to you and you’ve actually changed. Its why you can’t write stories. Not ones you love.

Magic never denies its evil side. There are witches and hags and greedy giants. You fight it with the good. You’ve learned to simply be. And you hate yourself for it.

Yours Truly,

sign-off

Believing In The Right Things

Dear Peter,

You were perfect. The golden-curled golden boy with promises grand and seemingly impossible. I followed your shadow, like the centuries old light chasing the star as it streaks across the sky, pure and trusting, if somewhat lacking. Fairy dust and moonlight, and oh the stories! The wind in your hair, the breeze cradling you as you flew, flew higher and further, flew to where I too once belonged.

You believed. With all your heart you believed; believed in me and believed in you and believed in what we could be one day; believed in all the castles and dragons we would conquer and all the glory and honor. And you flew. Higher and further.

Fairy dust floated down when you shook your hair, and there was always some in your ear—they could never scrub you hard enough to get it out completely; no amount of soap and bubbles would wash the magic out. The boys looked up to you—oh how they worshipped you; sweet, bumbling, poor little lost things wanting so much to be what you were…but Lost you called them and lost little boys they were. You didn’t see it; in all your perfection you didn’t see what they weren’t. Didn’t see how they were too young to know it and far too naive, too busy bustling about in the paradise you perfected for them. You were kind and funny—they loved you! We all did Pete. But once the moon peeked out, you flew.

I used to ride the wind with you, all it took was slight Tinkering now and then, and we’d soar above the clouds and dip down again to gaze down upon the city lights. The world laid at our feet and we were both so, so young! But you loved it too much—or thought of going back down with more hatred than should have had place in your tiny, happy heart—I saw it. I saw it the first time I took you along with me and heard you laugh, I saw it and should have stopped—that laugh wasn’t yours, it wasn’t, it was happy and carefree but it wasn’t yours; but before I knew it, I was chasing your shadow. But only because it was the only part of you not volitant in the darkness. Isn’t that funny? That while you glided in the star-strewn dark, your shadow pranced about in the candlelight and no matter how tightly you sewed it on, even that creature of darkness needed an escape from the hollow nights. You loved it too much. I should have put an end to it.

But all it takes is once. And so you flew. Higher and further. Until one day you found a piece of land; glowing with the haloed light of the stardust on its beach. You came back and told me you’d found home. You laughed and it was you again, and I thought you’d come back finally. That maybe you did really find home and realized it was right where we stood. After months and months of you flying into the night, I was finally seeing you and your lovely face with its lovely smile. You asked me for stories, like you once used to long before you flew out to make your own. We stayed up that night, and for once, I wasn’t worrying and you were home.

Fairy dust and moonlight and the next night you were off again. The boys followed you—they would’ve followed you to end of the world and walked right off the edge if you’d let them; but only you and Georgie returned and how he glowed! The boys weren’t coming back. You went every night and came back with stories of pirates and treasure hunts that you and the boys went on. You laughed and asked me to come along. I did. It was beautiful, the island. It was your paradise and the boys were happy. Morning came and I asked you to take me back. You told me you were staying.

Told me you were dying in that world and that you didn’t belong there anymore, were Never coming back—told me I didn’t belong there, not with all my stories and fairy dust. But I did and I came back and never flew again.

I never saw the boys after that one night at the island spent pestering the pirate. But every once in a while, if I stayed up long enough, I would see your shadow, opening and closing the drawers of our room, touching my muddy shoes and the soft sheets, dancing in the candlelight. If I stayed awake long enough, I would see your shadow home. And when you flew in to take that rebellious part of you back and softly crept up to my bed and peered at my face, I would shut my eyes tight. Pretend to not see you and turn around to fight the tear that threatened to fall every time you kissed me goodbye.

petes

Love

P.S  I’m sorry you never got to see what we would become, never got to see the dragons and adventures that came long after.

pete

Yours Truly,

sc edited

Fifteen and Fabulous

I find that word funny: fabulous. I don’t know why but when I say it in my head it’s always in this snooty, mocking voice that just cracks me up. I crack me up.

In other news, my birthday is approaching. But don’t worry you can hold off on the birthday wishes, my non-existent reader, for it’s not for another three months.  I don’t know what made me think of my birthday right now (perhaps it’s because I’m supposed to be reading up on Germany: 1918-1945).

Even though it wasn’t the very best year (coming down with typhoid and being in the hospital for a month was the highlight of 2014—it was really fun, and no, I’m not being sarcastic) I have come upon the realization that I will miss being fifteen. Because being fifteen has been fabulous.

And yes it’s true that last year I was convinced Fourteen is Fun and the year before that I had termed my age the Thriving Thirteen, but Fabulous Fifteen is the best. This year I was sort of depressed on my birthday because the thought of turning fifteen was…upsetting to say the least (is there a scientific term for the fear of growing up?) because I was under the impression that this is when my life as an adult starts and so I cannot under any circumstances go wrong this year. It was a lot of pressure (having an overactive brain might be fun when writing essays for English, but it’s not the best thing for you when its 12:00 am and you’re reflecting on your life and where you’re headed)

I wanted to hold off on being a grown up just another year. But having got through 10 months of being fifteen, I have come upon the startling realization, that it’s not so bad.

I went about for quite a few weeks after the Realization expecting people to break into applause for my genius… nope. nothing.

In fact, I have messed up quite a few times—more than I have ever done since I turned 10, and the sky hasn’t fallen! My academic performance was at an all-time low—first time I’ve gotten below an A since third grade (I’m not bragging, it just really makes me sad). I had vowed on entering tenth grade that I was going to excel at my studies and all the pressure that I was putting on myself only backfired. Turns out my grey cells work better during an exam when I’m mentally singing show tunes from the cartoons I watch the night before than when I concentrate on what I’m writing/studying. Weird.

I was also depressed and afraid that unless I devoted every waking moment to being (my perception of) ‘productive’, then I was going to end up a failure and never become a doctor or a writer or a pilot or all of those things combined. It also didn’t help that my friends were going through a similar phase and so we worried and freaked out each other until I finally reached my breaking point and simply gave up. I gave up on studying, because I was sure I was going to fail anyway. But giving up didn’t stop me from worrying. Oh hell nah.

But after I got typhoid and was forced to take 2 months off from my normal life and studies and school, I gained some perspective. I stopped being vain and delusional enough to think that every move of mine was life-altering. These two months were spent entirely carefree and (for the former half) lying on a hospital bed with a fantastic view of another hospital wing and green trees and med students hurrying off to their classes.

Here, I decided that not getting A* for all my subjects was okay and not the end of the world. Perhaps I’m taking it a little too far because there is two weeks for my GCSE boards and I haven’t even started studying. But at least I’m happy. And instead of worrying that I’m never going to finish my syllabus, I’m going to give it a bloody good go.

So yeah, it wasn’t a great year. BUT. But it was also the year that I realized I’m going to be just fine. And yeah, it would have been nice to be thus enlightened sooner instead of just one month ago, but that’s okay. Better late than never, right? I’m afraid that this feeling of…of…(peace, is it?) is going to go away once I turn sixteen,because everybody knows sixteen is when your life as an adult starts and you cannot under any circumstances go wrong that year—wait, where have I heard that before?

In other, other news, there is a lizard staring at me.

I Want To Be Afraid Of The Dark Again

I’m not afraid of the monster under my bed anymore…he left…quite a long time ago actually, though I never realized it until now. And no matter how many times I turn off the light, lie on my bed, my feet dangling off the edge and wiggle my toes hoping the monster might bite them, he never does. He left. Never to come back. No matter how many times I dare him to “boo!” me.

He has gone the same way that Moonface and the Saucepan Man and the angry pixie went. He left me just like my troupe of imaginary friends and my blue rocking horse and Kitchen Barbie. He has gone out of sight exactly like my Hot Wheels racing track and cars.

My dog’s eyes don’t gleam or twinkle anymore. He doesn’t get a case of the sniffles. He doesn’t bleed anymore when I accidently drop him down the stairs. Now, he’s exactly like all the other stuffed toys. The cotton inside of him is now simply cotton, not fragments of clouds or the mystical seeds of the Enchanted Tree. He no longer lies beside me on the bed and tells me about the mischief the other toys got into last night; how Tubby tried to get at the sketch pens but instead ended up knocking over Barbie’s wonderful, organized wardrobe; how ducky finally got the courage to swim properly in the tub…

I no longer feel posh and ‘all that’ while holding my plastic ‘wine’ glass filled with sherbet, and spouting british-sounding gibberish. I resigned from the German Secret Agency; I turned in my Russian spy identity card and all the fancy equipment; I don’t speak French or Imp or Goblin anymore. I no longer have tea with the Queen Of Neptune. I have finally accepted that Pluto is not a planet and don’t feel bad anymore that the other planets kicked him out of their posse. I got expelled from Hogwarts.

Scooby-doo and the gang don’t include me in any of their mysteries. Archie’s love dilemmas no longer seem forbidden or grown-up.

I don’t fight with my friends over who would make a better super hero; I don’t fight over pencils or fancy erasers..

Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup no longer have all the answers. Dora doesn’t speak to me or ask me for help. Tom and Jerry are not the ones with the biggest problems nowadays.

Courage isn’t just a pink dog with funny teeth, it’s a very complicated thing.

Enid Blyton is not the Bible anymore. Secret late night ice-cream spree is no longer the worst thing I’ve done. Unicorns are extinct and all the pots of gold at the end of rainbows have been stolen, and not by Capt Hook. Peter Pan grew up.

Wrong and Right are no longer two parallel lines, they’re splashes of black and white which now sometimes make grey.

I’m not a child anymore. But I’m not an adult either. I still wish the fairy godmother would come and make me a pumpkin chariot. But I know she will not.