She sits quietly, unmoving
for days on ends. For weeks, the same silly cycle, lazy. Staring off into space, not wanting to work her eyes, pieces of prism sat atop her nose, fogging whatever there is to see. She pecks. The area around her is littered with books. Trying to convince herself to be joyful, echoes surround the room, eight counts from a lifetime past shrouding the thoughts of her future. For she doesn’t have one. She doesn’t care about herself, she doesn’t care about others. Her priority is the black box as she hits, and hits, and hits. For hours and hours on end. … I wonder if the repetitive motion is giving her joy. Is it dwindling her anxiety, does she even know she’s doing it? She could be laughing with a friend, taking pictures of the trees, curing her hunger, but instead, she stares are the translucent image of her own pre-decaying flesh, at the soulless eyes she longs would twinkle, at the imaginary people that she convinces herself are real. She’s irrational. Selfish. Loud. She’s never going to run a marathon. No big dreams she’s leaping towards. Locked in a cave at the end of the second floor, staring out the window on the other side of the cage. This is all she’ll ever become. These are all who care for her. Herself, her books, and her pretty little imagination, the puny pictures of the perfect people littering the projected promises. A ghost. A little girl. A broken, crumped leaf, which will one day be taken up by the wind, yet for now, is soaking in the dampness of a gutter.
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Sitting on a porch, the luminance
of the closest ball of rock shines down on me, the first man I ever grew to love. I did it, I faced today, with all the never-ending embarrassments embedded into my memory. I take another sip, the alcohol slithering down my soul, coming closer to the darkness. I crave the quiet of sleep. I lean back on the front steps, staring down into my old man’s solitude. How will ever I live without the glowing safety of your gorgeous rays. How do you ever expect me to once again face a sunrise. I can almost see you shrug, sinking closer towards the horizon, inching, pulling, growing towards my most hysteric nightmare. I am an imperfect person.
I am obnoxious, and loud, and rude. I talk before I can listen, I give my opinions before gathering all the facts. I’m terrified. I fester in insecurities. I squirm inside the cocoon I’ve built for myself. I’m untalented. I can’t take a compliment. I long to help but hate giving gifts. My time is my most valuable resource, and I wish to give it all to you. I am lost in a world built among the stars, a constant daydream clouding the nightmares of reality. I miss my home, not the one of brick born into this lifetime, but the one where my soul collided with hope, the purest of me, the true before, before. I miss that before. I remember memories of my embarrassments, everything I should have said, every moment in which my mouth should shut. Will a thousand lifetimes erase these from my movie, or will every lifetime add another scene? I’m tired, exhausted. I want to sleep on a cotton candy cloud, I want to drift off through the waves, I want to lie on a beach alone relishing the quiet, nothing but my thoughts. I can’t do any more harm if there’s no one there to stop me. I can’t do any more good if there’s no one left to love. I am not my own soulmate. I don’t think I could ever be yours. I’ve never been able to answer the question:
What do you want to be when you grow up? I’ve never wanted to grow up. I’ve never been able to see myself in thirty years, emptying the trash while getting my daughter to do her homework. I’ve never been able to lean back in an office chair, counting down the ticking seconds until I clock out, going back home to my little New York apartment where I watch the taxis drive by from my tenth story window, a book transporting me to another world held like a trophy in my hands, covered in a blanket that’s seen every journey up to this passing second. I still don’t know who I am. I still don’t recognize my name. My face is attached to my body, but this body is not mine. I think I was born into the wrong life. I think the real me is on an adventure, driving up the coast with her boyfriend, living the life of a fairytale, a princess playing peasant for the day. Do you ever wish that you could time travel? I want to ask myself who I’m supposed to be. What should I learn to love, who is going to stick with me when they get out of work at five? Will I ever feel like I’m the main character? We are told in this world, constantly, that we have all but one life, and that we should live it to the fullest. What if the true way of living is taking joy in the simple monotony? My hands touch these keys, making a clack as the plastic touches the electronics of my computer, little pixels lighting up on the screen, my thoughts becoming a reality. This is living. There is blood, little cells of hemoglobin and amino acids and thymine and atoms and protons and quarks, I am just a science experiment. I am all these little moving pieces working together to try to bring just a little amount of joy. I am just a person trying to make those around me smile. I don’t need to be a princess. Honestly, I don’t ever want to get into a sword fight. Paper cuts are the end of the world. It’s okay if I never pester a little girl into taking first day of school pictures, or if I never go on a picnic with somebody I have yet to love. Because those are the elements of a fairytale. And I am much more of a miracle. A flickering candle burns,
swallowing the darkness with all of its courage. Flaming as waves pass, salt scorching the beauty of beeswax. I wonder who lit this metaphorical breath. Who first saw the tiny point in the distance, the night melting away into the mystery unknown. Did they make it out alive? Or did they succumb to the darkness drawing into the frigid depths with the anglerfish, A sea of darkness taking snuff to the light. Can I tell you a secret?
I’ve always wanted to fly to the moon. Not in a rocket ship, no metal shield or fiery fuel, I want to be set free among the stars, I’m scared of being blinded by the smokiness. I want to fly to the moon, and eat lunch atop a crater. I want to picnic with my thoughts, looking out at the vast blue ocean. The trees are little ants, look at all the tiny people, And all their tiny problems. I always used to think on Earth that my problems were so big. That money and happiness and love were the most important things in the world. They may have been. But I’ve flown away, I’ve taken a trip to the lonely and illuminated, I’ve breathed the air no one has yet to breathe, I’ve met the stars for more than a nightly wish. I don’t want to go back to the way things used to be, I no longer want to hide amongst the treetops. I’ve met the man on the moon, I’ve understood why he’s been here for so long. Hello, excuse me?
I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but I think I’ve loved you in a past life. I know this sounds crazy, and that I’m just a stranger to you, but do you happen to remember a party? It’s fuzzy to me, after all, the pieces have been lost after an eternity of childhoods, each lifetime a chess game of puzzle pieces, I know neither of us really remember which piece is which pawn. But I remember you. I think I knew you. I think there was a party, once upon a different time, and you were loved by another soul. I think you and her were meant to be, until death did you part, but you have parted, haven’t you? I think I was jealous, I think I knew our souls fit together, my hand in yours, I think I knew myself better than that single life I had to live. I think I remember shoving you. I couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see me for who I really was, I think I was angry that even I didn’t know who I am. I think when I shoved you, I saw the look in your eye. I think you realized that it was me behind the mask. I think, at that moment, behind all the rage and the jealousy, you saw the real me, the me who gave you kisses before you got in that car, the me who made playlists before your adventures. The me who doesn’t know herself any more than she knows a total stranger, the me who hasn’t even lived enough lifetimes to recognize her own name. I think you realized something that day. I think it scared you. Because when I walked away, you didn’t call out to me, or ask if she was okay, or tell me off, no, no, my darling, you just stood there. Because when you witness something miraculous, when you come to a revelation, you realize that there is no action, no thought that could make this miracle any less of a miracle. You realized that you were no more immortal than the stories I wish to tell, so you did the one thing you were able to do: you watched me. At that party, you just watched me. I went on with my lives, I had my fun, at times I cried but you were always there, one step ahead, protective. Even when I didn’t know my ups from downs you kept me seeing the truth, even while I was blind to the realities you wrote it down for me. You left her. And when I was ready, I sat down next to you. I sat down, tired and confused. I had forgotten who you were, I was the strongest I’d ever been. I sat down, and you smiled at me. You placed a gentle kiss on my forehead and with a singular hello, everything came rushing back to me. I knew who you were. I saw you for everything you truly are. I smiled at you, I returned your greeting, I asked when you knew. And you replied. It wasn’t the twinkle in your eyes while I shoved you, my love. That’s not what made you change. It was when I walked away. It was when I gave up, when I ran from you, when I let my anger and fear and sadness consume me, when I threw that all away, that’s when you saw me for who I really was. I don’t let myself care. When I’m afraid that the world has given me more than I can handle, I erase the list I’ve been given. I limit myself to my insecurities. You love me for what I hate most about myself. You know that you can show me the light. You know that not enough picnics or car trips or stories will complete me, so you choose simple kindness instead. You know me. I just want to know you. I do not exist.
I am theoretical, a vague conception. A collection of cracked and shattered eggshells, swimming through their shields of protection. In theory, my mind is the static of a television screen, with no news to report, just the quiet credits of a horror loading a few dozen miles away. Is it a Tuesday? I am strong, and determined, and powerful. I cannot be ripped to shreds. My strings cannot be cut. I am a daydream, sweet and surreal, the lustful longing only a little girl can dance beneath. I’m a torturer, my own body my canvas, my mind a delusional path of destruction doused in little wishes. I am immortal until proven otherwise. You cannot kill a trailing thought. How many more seconds will tick past before my body is mine again? How many clocks must reset before the moving pictures move on? I long to be spontaneous. I want to hold my hand in yours, sip a coffee and slip my sunglasses through my hair. I imagine the sunsets we could watch together, the car trips, and the daisies. We could scream in the cornfields, you could get down on one knee, we could travel the world together. I long to be important. I know I’m intelligent. Maybe if I could memorize, if I was in control of my own thoughts, if I wasn’t riddled with what he says and her opinions and her rebuttals. I can see myself being happy. I know how to daydream. I want to write a novel, I want to learn the secrets of the stars. How can I reach my goals when you complete them for me? How can I live a meaningful life when yours is covering the screen? How can I get rid of you, without having to say goodbye? Because under all these linguistic strategies, under poems and prayers, the truth is that I am in love with you. I, on purpose, hold you close. The only stories I see among the stars are the ones you step foot in, the ones I’ve written for myself. I am a dreamer with multiple dreams. I am a novelist for two worlds. I want to take the path not yet taken, with a go-pro following the one that has. I don’t want to lose you. I’m terrified of losing me. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about probability.
What is the probability that two brothers decided to go textless? What is the probability that a little girl developed cancer? What is the probability that millions were moved by her story? What is the probability that I decided to join a board game club? What is the probability that I decided to go on my phone one morning instead of paying attention to class? What is the probability that I would be the first to respond to a Reddit post? What is the probability that I would be brave enough to start a server? What is the probability that you logged onto Reddit? What is the probability that you saw my post? What is the probability that we met? What is the probability of all these things happening together? I think you’re the reason I’m starting to believe in God. I think us finding each other was a miracle. It’s a miracle that with every branch on every timeline, we happened to climb onto this one. It’s a miracle that we get to exist in the same lifetime. Think about it, one little changed decision, and we never would have found each other. The world is full of dominos, and every single one had to fall into place perfectly. Look at all the little ways the world fell into place perfectly to let us exist together. Tell me how you couldn’t believe in miracles. I flipped through the pages,
taking in every word as scripture. This is how my body will grow, this is how to get a boy to like me, this is who I’m supposed to turn into. I was just a little girl. I couldn’t have told you my favorite color, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I just turned another page. And I knew. I had more fingers on my hands than trips around the sun, but even so young and so naive my instincts were stronger than fiberglass. Something was wrong. But I didn’t look like those pictures. I didn’t hate myself. I didn’t do it on purpose. None of the words fit to what I was feeling but they were calling to me. Screaming. Juliana, you are us. Juliana, you don’t have to eat that. Juliana, something is wrong. I was so young. How did I know so young? How did I only find out today? Little Juliana, what else did you know? |
AuthorJuliana Theis. Writer, artist, poet, childhood dancer, binge watcher, chronic shipper, and avid nerdfighter. Archives
November 2021
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