I had a random epiphany in the shower one morning. Before going to class, I wrote it down on paper and dropped it into someone's CWC bag.
The next time I checked my own bag, I found that I got my note back. On the reverse side of it, whoever recieved it wrote:
"I don't understand this. This is stupid."
--
I sent messages in bottles back in the winter, because nobody ever sends those in the literal sense anymore. I wrote happy little notes for the bottles to carry, and I'd make them for all of my friends.
I made party favors for my guests. I always give gifts to my friends.
And people think I have an ulterior motive.
--
Life is the weirdest thing God came up with.
Is wisdom that rare to find in a girl that's on the cusp of being a woman? I know I'm an oddity, but still.
Is it a reason to be afraid?
Does every act of kindness have some kind of selfish ulterior motive behind it?
Do we always do good things in the hopes of getting what we want in return?
The idea's been around long enough, certainly. Mortals have done good deeds in the hopes of getting into heaven ever since people have believed in life after death.
Does anybody do any good deed just for the hell of it, anymore? Just for the sake of wanting to make life that much more bearable?
It almost makes a person second-guess themselves before they ever say or do anything that even hints at being kind or selfless, or different. Is "different" synonymous with "kind", now?
I wonder if this'll be part of becoming an adult. Will I have to give this up, my bottles and my epiphanies?
I'm going to go to college. I'm going to learn how to budget my money so I can have a roof over my head and food in the pantry. I'm going to learn how to share my bed...my life...with someone else who doesn't care that I sing in my sleep. I'm going to share my body for nine months with a being I don't even know...and spend eighteen more years getting to know that being, who will carry a pinch of me.
I'm going to grow old, watch my skin become stretchable and wrinkly, my famously red hair turn grey. I'm going to die when I'm done living.
I am willing to do all of this. I am willing to accept "adult" responsibilites and embark on the next chapter of my life, cliche as it is.
But please don't tell me that being an adult makes you narrow-minded, selfish, and heartless. Please don't tell me that adults forget how to laugh, how to play, how to find four-leaf-clovers and love in that innocent-but-deep way a dog or cat loves...you know, the no holds barred, faithful kind of love.
On Tuesday, I was leaving my internship and it was pouring down rain, I was wearing shoes that were digging into my ankles so much they were bleeding. As I stood at the crosswalk with no umbrella, I took off my shoes and put them in my purse.
There's one good thing about being an adult.
I can walk the streets of my city in my bare feet, with the rain soaking my dress...passing business suits and umbrellas...and not care what they thought.
--
I remember thinking that I was mentally ill when I was...God, I must've been about eight or nine - about the time I started penning my thoughts to paper. I knew even back then that people don't think like I do. Except back then, I constantly thought it was a bad thing. I thought I should have my head examined, my sanity. I didn't understand myself even back then.
As I've gotten older, I finally started to think that it wasn't so bad. That maybe people liked what I thought. Or if they didn't, I knew for a fact that I wasn't mentally insane.
But I know something for sure.
I can't change this about me, I don't want to change this about me, and nobody has the ability to change this about me. Nobody can make me clay in their hands, even if they tried, because I wouldn't fit into any mold they would ever present to me, anyway.
Whatever it is that makes me who I am is my downfall.
But I've learned that the things that people consider downfalls or weaknesses are things that actually turn out to be the exact opposite.
So maybe there's hope for us, after all.
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