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Sometimes looking back feels like falling forward, out of your seat, out of your life, and down the rabbit hole. Everyone has a story, most people just try to forget theirs. They bury it under college and careers, marriage and kids. Everyone wants to tell you about their future, their successes, how far they have come. But no one wants to talk about how they got there. No one wants to remember the things they forgot. No one wants to recall how they used to feel every word to every song on their favorite album. How lyrics could cut you to the bone, and a familiar melody bring tears to your eyes. No one wants to go back to a time when holding hands in the grass and looking at the moon took hours, and when that shooting star finally went by you knew that this moment, this exact moment, was meant to be. It was destined to happen, all of the gods in all of the worlds had thrust you head over feet into this exact place. This moment when all you could hear was the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your throat, and all you could feel was the grip of your hand, frozen in the same position. Too scared to make the first move, too terrified not to. Waiting, hardly breathing, for something that might never come. For the thing that would change your life forever. No one wants to go back to that time. They want to stay where it's safe. Where their heads and their hearts work in sync, and their dreams never betray them. But it's never safe. Because everyone has a story. This is just one of them.
I woke up this morning with the lingering feeling that I had come to some important realization in one of my many dreams from the night before. I had this strange underlying sensation of something....different. As if in the middle of the night, lost in sleep, I had uncovered something....something. Of course I have no idea what it is now that I have been up for an hour or so and all fragments of my dreams are lost for good....But it was such a strange feeling. Ease followed by panic. A desperate need to remember....trying to grasp at vague images. I wake up like that a lot. When I'm sleeping I can feel my dreams as though I were awake. And maybe I am. Or maybe I just don't want to get out of bed and analyzing my dreamworld is an excuse to lie here for an extra hour before my mom starts screaming at me and I have to face the world. That's probably it. Maybe.
"GET UP", a scream pierces through the closed door of my bedroom.
Well, it was only a matter of time.
With a heavy sigh I push the covers off and roll out of bed. I rip my door open, fully aware that it's going to slam against the wall and piss my mom off, but I can't really help pushing her buttons. The walk from my bedroom to the bathroom has never felt so long. I am literally dragging my feet. I didn't know until this precise moment that people actually drag their feet. But they do. It's not just an expression. I should bring that up in English class.
I stumble to the sink and stare at my toothbrush. I feel as though it's going to come to life and ram itself down my throat. This is going to be the worst day of my life.
"YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES UNTIL THE BUS GET'S HERE YOUNG LADY". Actually I have about thirty, but leave it to my mother to be dramatic. A shame she never pursued a career as an actor. She would have thrived.
My toothbrush is still staring back at me menacingly, my head swimming and throbbing. This must be what a hangover feels like. If I'd ever had more than a glass of wine at Christmas, I bet this is how I would feel the next day. Can you get emotional hangovers? Can an experience be so mind blowing, so heartbreakingly devastatingly intense that it leaves you hungover and useless the next day? It certainly feels like it. Maybe I'm the dramatic one.
I heave an exaggerated movie star sigh. I could pull it off. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Ok maybe I could pull off quirky side kick. That is no leading lady staring back at me. I pick a strand of my scraggly brown hair out of my eyes and attempt to comb through the frizzy curls with my fingers. There's obviously no god because it would take an especially cruel creator to bestow both curly and straight hair upon a person. I mean really, what the hell is one supposed to do with a mop like this? It can't make up its mind. My hair's only goal in life seems to be torturing me and ensuring that I will never live up to my movie star potential. Whatever. At least I don't need glasses. That'd be a real freaking curse.
"IT IS SIX FORTY-FIVE"
Right. Teeth, brushing them, on it. I don't understand how teenagers are expected to be functioning members of society before 10am. We're moody and emotional and obviously not cut out for the whole rise with the sun crap. I mean sure, kids on farms do it all the time, but does this look like a farm to you? I don't have any cows to milk. I have calculus and verbs to figure out the tenses of. Give me a freaking cow, please!