I am defined
As the supposed sum of my experiences
A rolling snowball
Inching along or roaring downhill
The accretion and momentum of ostensible wisdom
Thickening the outside layers
Thus obscuring access to the small nucleus
Where it all began.
The ideological spright vitality of youth is fleeting
Replaced by a superficial adaptation of what it means to be mature
Where obligations, responsibilities, and burdens
Supplant the natural innocence, freedom, and autonomy
That once ordained every action, every thought
Free from the concern of external judgement
And potential failure.
Endless alternate dimensions except that of time
For hours in and out
Of imaginatively constructed realms
Absorbed in mystically impossible possibilities
If only now I could truly escape
To pretend
I’m not afraid of growing up
I know what to do with the rest of my life
I love responsibility.
But haven’t we been prepping for this all of our lives?
The bedroom in my dollhouse looks awfully similar
To your bedroom and my bedroom
And money has just as little value now
As the green pieces of paper I used to draw my face on
Can someone please inform me
Who are the puppets and who are the puppeteers?
Why take it from me when Bill Shakespeare says it better
Life is but a stage and I have been casted for all the roles
And as insurgency has always been my forte
It is only customary that my dramatization
Features characters of complete contradiction
Consistently inconsistent
Demolishing any boundaries of conformity
That might limit the inner turmoils
Bubbling and spilling out my sides
Somehow strangely keeping me at equilibrium.
Because the truth is
Watching cartoons on Saturday mornings
Climbing trees and picking scabs
Double-dipping and licking the spoon
Makes it seem
That my world isn’t changing
That I’m not changing
Even though it feels like my ball of snow is headed towards a gaping cliff
I know the little snowball inside came from my own imagination.
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