I've been rather pensive lately.
So I went on vacation, and now I'm home, and I feel sick and hot and just pensive.
Which I'm probably spelling wrong anyway.
Not that it matters.
Sometimes I wonder why I write in this anymore. Anyone who ever read it doesn't read it anymore. It's rather bizarre, but I guess it's become sort of an outlet for myself. A private venting place that maybe someone will stumble upon one dreary day, glance at, and click out of.
I'm just so listless lately. School's starting again, and even though I love my school, I'm not looking forward to going back. Life is going by too quickly. I want a pause button, or at least the option to stillframe parts of my life that are speeding by, parts of my life that will never be ever again. Each second will never be used, ever again. Time marches onward.
Why do I feel old all of the time?
Nineteen. I remember when I was five, and I said, one day, I'll be thirteen. That passed six years ago. I had to count that out on my fingers. Even though time is passing by, yes, I still suck at math.
Why can't I be that little girl again? I want to be her. I miss her. When absolutely nothing in the world mattered except for just the now, not the before, not the after. Just now.
I read an article about how my generation is speeding alone without any brakes, and I really feel that way. I'm watching my parents growing older. It scares me. I almost started crying on the Monorail in Florida. There was this old man staring out the window, just staring out, as if he were remembering something. And I thought to myself, is he thinking that this might possibly be the last trip he takes to Disney World? How do you know it's the last time you'll do anything?
They've always said that I've been an old lady since I was three. That I've always had this mature mind that was just... ancient in some ways. I don't think that's that true.
I miss running around hotels, pretending they were the Titanic and that we were locked in steerage. I miss hiking around in the jungle of my backyard, pretending that we were playing Indians and captives, and poking each other with earth-eaten sticks. I miss crawling around the girl's bathroom in grammar school as if it were a prison, and the stalls were the cells. I miss drawing circles into the carpet with my fingers, pretending that they were the rooms of a house that I'll never live in.
I miss having thirty doll-children, and making up silly names for myself like Candy and Tiffany. I miss being seventy different horses, romping my sister around the house on my back. The fastest one was Champion. I miss drawing pictures on notepaper with markers that bled through to the other side and sheets. I miss coloring in the lines. I miss crying over the loss of a sticker, the hole in Otay, my stuffed animal, not over college classes and the overwhelming pressure of walls closing in. I miss when promises meant something, and the stickiness of glue upon fingers meant something.
I miss having time to read. I miss reading through the entire first grade library in three weeks. I miss being sick and hiding under the covers of my bed, making up secret jokes to myself that I thought were so clever.
What do you call a pig that likes bushes?
A hedgehog.
What do you call a Chinese pebble?
A wok.
I miss childhood.
