I remember the first time we spent time together. I decided to sit with you on the school bus. I was leaning with my back against the metal panel below the window and you eased your way onto my lap. The wind disheveled your neat and tidy aesthetic and you looked as cluttered as my thoughts. I held to you tightly as I put up the window. The wind halted with the dramatic shut of the glass. I immediately felt comfortable as you drew me in with the eccentric zeal of your words. Before I met you I could only occupy my own space and my own thoughts. That night I slept with my blinds opened and I watched the stars.
A few years later, puberty hit the school like a plague. Genuine curiosity became obsolete, angst and spitefulness filled its space. Everyone hated you. I pretended like I didn’t know who you were. I shut off the world that you showed me and learned to walk with my eyes glued to the ground. Time passed by. I didn’t think of you for a while.
It was really pleasant to catch up with you over coffee last summer. Before we reacquainted I spent a lot of time in my own head. Ambition and anxiety worked against each other and dragged me in every direction. I was so engulfed in sculpting my own intricate and sensible direction that I failed to acknowledge the fact that there was so much more to life than what I could see with my two eyes. Since I started putting time aside to spend with you I have regained my curiosity about the tiny gears that keep the earth spinning.
I used to fear that the spark that fires my creativity would become dull with time. Now I know that when I am feeling lost in the bureaucracy of a happy life or when I am feeling uninspired I know that I can spend time with you. For every new chapter of me, there are a million chapters of you. You speak to me through every stage; I live with you on every page.
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