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And I Wish, And Wish, And Wish
I don't like the way words feel on my lips. Like dried parchment paper with a slight ear wax and crayons aftertaste; too much to bear. It reminds me of the things unseen, of dangers and mistakes, realizations and intentions. They're too much for me, too much for me to live through without tugging at my morbid hair, biting my knee caps with an air of acrimoniousness. Then I wonder why my knees have bumpy crescent moon shapes on them and I wish, and wish, and wish that they'll go away and just leave me alone.
Have you realized that there is no other word for love? Passion, devotion, fondness, affection, liking, and more. None of them can live up to the big word. They're mere meanings to the placid word, the word that's bigger than Hope, Hate, Fear. Sometimes I waste my time thinking up a new word for love. I write my ideas down on sticky notes and on the back of old homework sheets and I tear my eyelashes out when I realize I'm writing down words already taken, already spoken, in the dictionary. Sometimes I find myself writing down meaningless words, words that aren't meant to be there but were swimming in my head like lost fish on Broadway Avenue.
Sometimes I wish, and wish, and wish that there was another word for Love. A word that didn't sound quite as scary or as mean. Maybe there is another word out there, it's just that people are too scared to look for it.
Sometimes I wish, and wish, and wish I could paint in a meadow, when the sun is kissing the tops of the mountains in the horizon and my easel is sitting tight, blending in with the tall terrain. The only thing sticking out are the cerulean flowers and my purple dress and the color being spread onto the drab-y canvas. Filling in the uncolored with hues beyond your imagination. It makes me wonder if there really is another color out there, but I can't imagine what it is. It's like trying to see what the inside of your finger nails looks like when all you see is the top, the chipping nail polish.
But I wouldn't try to think of that. I'd really think about the way the clouds move in a slow, turtle-like way, and how the mountains contrast with the polished, red and purple sky, and of the way my hand moves over the material, the brush making small, soothing sounds that remind me of home and my dreams. And then I'd wish, and wish, and wish until my heart breaks and my head explodes and the paintbrush in my hand withers and falls apart within my grasp. Maybe then I wouldn't feel the pain anymore.
I'm afraid of being blind. I'd much rather die than have to endure the pain of not being able to see. Who would take care of me? I wouldn't be able to write or draw ever again. The thought of having to learn Braille scares me beyond reason and the thought of dying sounds like a much pleasurable idea. I wouldn't be able to see faces, see who was attractive and who was not, I couldn't wish, and wish, and wish until my heart breaks and the stars die, I'd be a failure compared to all the other blind people. And then I think of them. A person born blind doesn't understand what the world looks like, do they? If you tell them that the sky is blue, they think "What does blue look like?" And there's no way to explain it to them. "It looks like mother's blue vase." You say. "What is a vase?". They don't know what a vase or a tree or colors look like, and it just makes them feel like they're missing out on some juicy secret, some beauty no one can understand.
If I was blind, I'd wish, and wish, and wish that I could get new eyes.
If I were an animal, I'd be the bear. I'd sleep during the winter and catch silver wish fish swimming in that lake in your backyard and I'd rumble along the rocky shores searching for something I'm unsure of. I'd be brown like your eyes, brown like the tree trunks under your bed, and I'd kiss leaves and flowers with a black nose that reminds me of your father's eye patch.
If I were a plant, I'd be a tree. I'd reach for the sky, the stars, hoping one day I could pull it down and embrace it tightly, never to let go. I'd float in the breeze and learn the secrets of the mountains and listen to the dreams of the blades of grass at my roots and I'd wish, and wish, and wish that I could catch a star and hold it into my branches like a little five year old would with her worn-out dolly.
I like to whisper my secrets in the dark, while I sit in the corner on my bed, wishing I could escape to a new world, away from reality. I'd cradle my head and rock to and fro without a care as to what went on in the outside world and I'd think about everything that came to mind and cry over every little memory that strikes me like you did to your mother that night. I'd wish for a new life and then wish for my old one back and I'd bite my lip until it bleed and then bite my knees until they were numb. And I wouldn't move until my thoughts were gone and the sun rose and kissed the stars goodbye and sleep was restlessly clawing at my withered, blue eyes until I finally just said "stop, stop, don't touch me there" and they stopped but not without closing my lids with a silent prayer to a God I don't believe in.
I used to be afraid of silence, but now that withering noise is all I can bear. Loudness rips my ears to shreds and makes my head burn with an anxiety I cannot place a finger upon, and makes the back of my throat itch, an itch I cannot scratch because it is too far away to reach. Silence and loneliness and sadness are my three best friends that visit me during those cold, dark nights when I'm restlessly lying in bed thinking of the things I did wrong and what I could have done but never did. Regretful-ness likes to tag along, I s'pose, like scavenging ravens following a pack of wolves to a kill made only moments ago. Only I am the fresh kill and my three best friends are the pack and regret and despair and guilt are the ravens. And I wish, and wish, and wish that I could float up to the clouds and live with the angels that sleep in them during the day and to the stars that burn too bright in their gas masks and wonder why it is the people wish to them when they can do nothing but twinkle and let Fate do the talking.
And I wish, and wish, and wish that I could be with you. With you on that rooftop, reaching up and pulling the stars from their strings, dangling on a large sheet of navy construction paper, where we'd wish and wish and wish that something good will become of us and that we won't have to leave each other and that we don't have to cry and scream and wish all over again.
And I wish, and wish, and wish that nothing will ever change.