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Thoughts Walking to Class

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Does no one else notice the lavender? So much lavender grows near the main office. On the last day of school I want to grab clumps of the dark purplegray flowers and just inhale forever while running off campus. I love nature. Who needs drugs when flowers exist? I am perfectly satisfied with getting high off happiness.

Look at these people! They all walk together. Why? Am I the only one who needs a moment alone with my thoughts between classes? How does anyone think around here, constantly distracted by their phone screens and empty conversation? Their empty talk and my empty thoughts. I think think think about absolutely nothing. Maybe I’m the one missing out.

I can’t relate to anyone here! Maybe I’m not searching hard enough.

search, search, scour the halls
for something different, something wrong
a girl or a boy who shuffles their feet
whose hair and clothes are messy, not neat
where are you friend, who looks to the sky
and wonders, ponders: Why, why, why?
there’s not a soul around I can see
who feels even a bit like me

Am I a genius? Nope, just dramatic. And self-centered. I pretend to be humble while believing that I’m such a deep and profound observer of the world. How can I claim to possess such depth with such little life experience? At least I know that I’m naive; that’s more than other kids my age can say. There I go again. You disgust me, me.

My shoelaces are untied. I like my shoes. I have shamelessly latched onto the Converse trend. I like buying a pair and wearing them until they fall apart on my feet. These are completely black—laces, soles, everything. I love them. They are in perfect condition—not so new that I have to avoid walking through grass and not so worn out that there are holes revealing my lack of socks. I hate socks. They’re so sickeningly soft that they make my feet itch.

My poor shoelaces…if they were sentient beings they would be screaming in agony as they slammed and scraped their soft bodies against the rough concrete. But they aren’t. Instead, they’re awkward dancers. Little children spastically jumping about and contorting their bodies to a song no one else can hear. My shoes are like parents, trying and failing to keep their shoelace children in line. What a perfectly chaotic family. I don’t understand parents nowadays. They try to live perfect lives and mold perfect children from perfect parenting strategies and perfect routines. And then, when they’re children don’t turn out to be perfect, these perfect parents fall apart. Poor perfectionists. Those parents need to be more like my shoes, with a firm hold of their children’s centers—their core values—but a loose grasp on who they become.

—Excuse me, young lady!

Uh oh. Conversation. With an adult.

—I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but your shoes are untied…better tie them up before you fall sweetie!

—Um, oh, ok thanks.

Fine. I’ll tie my shoes. Sorry shoelace children.

Am I insane? Probably. I'd better get to class.




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