you dream of the days where your feet no longer scrape the cinnamon floors of your gray-walled home, flaked-skin chipping past the sidewalk of your brick-lined neighborhood: driveways etched in too-straight lines, grass frosted in emerald.
you are afraid of growing up yet you spend your days wishing yourself out of the silent middle-class suburb that your feet are tied to, spend your days tired and lost and alone.
you never did child-like things, never played with those kids who live on the corner in that speckled-navy house, their faces wide and deep and blooming with laughter as they squish their feet through the overgrown retention pond. you never played with the neighbors, never threw rain boots round the edges of your heels and ran through the thick brush of the quiet woods resting behind your screen-door, you never waved at that angry farmer that keeps to the gold corn-field and laughed as he hollered and shook his fist, never scampered behind the treeline.
rather, you sat criss-cross in the nook of the wooden play-set that your dad built, fingertips clamped around a book as you willed yourself to be somewhere else, willed your body to evaporate into mist and stardust and dirt and materialize somewhere better. you wanted to travel the world, wanted to go where no one else had ever gone before and fly out of the place where you were nothing and no one. you spent so much time worrying about how your skin was a bit too pale, legs a bit too long, town a bit too typical that you forgot too look around you, forgot to watch the extraordinary unfold.
you forgot to watch the sunset melt into a hot-chocolate sky, marshmallow clouds so fluffy that they could evaporate beneath the suds of your tongue. you forgot to look at the coconut-colored branches of the sturdy tree that guarded you, face woven from oak. you forgot to watch the stars flicker white and frothed in layers of whipped-cream, you forgot.
you spent so much time dreaming about the years to come, that you forgot to be a child.
This is a piece I wrote about myself, it just came more naturally writing it in second-person point of view. I still have quite some time before I leave, but I found that when I was younger, probably from ages 5-12, I really just kept to myself and forgot to look around me. I'm not saying that daydreaming is bad, in fact, its scientifically proven to be good for you, its just that I spent too much of my time wishing to be somewhere else -- somebody else -- that I missed out on simple things.