I can’t remember when it started, but I stopped being able to understand myself. They called this “teenage”. I pass by what seems like millions of people who’s faces are always filled with joyous smiles and live a life that fits in with the society, it is how I'm supposed to live.
From time to time, I would see a familiar face and squeeze a weak smile back as they wave enthusiastically, but the curve created with my lips fades away quickly and quietly. I never liked to smile, because it is colorless and meaningless. The faces behind those smiles are scary to even think about. However, I just smile because I didn’t want anyone to worry.
When I have time away from my phone, I like to look outside the window. I would be gazing at the sky and be mesmerized by how the clouds transforms into unknown shapes. As the twilight darkens the shadow of birds leaving to the far, far “other-side”, I always wondered why they never come back.
I know that I’m not supposed to be living this way. I am supposed to be sitting in a classroom quietly with classmates who are exactly like me and listen to the same lesson given by the same instructor; I’m supposed to be working past my bedtime, answering the questions and completing projects that piles up to a mountain; I am supposed to be running and running, chasing after my dreams like everyone else, but I don’t. I look outside the window as time slip by my side, leaving no trail of any kind, except the wrinkles they carved onto my parents’ faces. As time ticks by, I still look outside the window, hoping to find an answer. My sight has no focus, it blurs into a ball of brightness as the light of each building shines on my face. As the cars drive by the window, I can hear their engine, their hunks, the driver talking, and I can even almost hear my tears running backwards into my stomach. They water the seeds we planted, they and I.
Sometime I would look down from the second floor to the tree growing in our yard. I would remember those years I spent weaving a memory called childhood. The leave that fell would probably grow back next year, but none of it is going to be the ones that I used to see.That is much like school. When we leave those classrooms and the instructors, those desks will be assigned to different students next year, wasting the similar youthness we used to waste.
Slowly, I started to like to walk in the rain. They say it makes you sick but so what? I don’t always carry an umbrella, I just walk on the humid streets, splashing water with my soaking-wet shoes, and wait for the traffic light to signal pedestrians to walk. I would turn around thinking someone is calling my name and only to find disappointment, along with the dark gray shadow of me - the only thing that never left.
Before our test, the weather was so bad. The wind blew my already messy hair and brushed across my sorrowful mood. I dropped my notes and ran into the rain. I felt relieved because I finally cried out loud. The rain poked my face like needles, but made it hard to distinguish the water drops from my tears. The wind roared over my cries and I felt safe, something I haven’t felt in a long time. I burst into laughters for some reason like a psychopath and ran around in the mud. The brown liquid bloomed flowers on my white shirt and gray shorts. When I felt tired, I sat on the grass and cried some more.
That day, I got a fever, but at least I have a reason to not force a smile. I wonder when I can actually laugh again. Speaking of which, who was the poet that said rain washes out the dust in your soul? Well, he lied.