We Are the Children

April 1, 2008
I am the broken swing-set in the backyard, used and enjoyed, but now left half alive, with only a slight hope of repair.
Wait—no. I am the not the broken swing-set.
I am the tool to repair the dilapidated toy.
I am the future, the hope for things broken.
I am the new generation.
I am the child.
I am the empty Microsoft Word document, blank, bland, bored, waiting to be filled with rambling thoughts, sprawling themes, long-winded descriptions, and hypocritical characters.
I am the Kool-Aid Burst drink, berry punch and drunk with the ecstatic desire of a lucky, sticky-handed toddler.
I am the twenty years from now, the ugly duckling waiting to turn swan, the story untold.
I am the child.

I dream in my Pre-School play house, filled with Velcro pizza slices and a plastic wireless phone.
My house is my nest.
My nest is my ground zero.
It is where everything will start and everything will end.
I dream in my Pre-School play house, but I live in George Walton, Beautywise, Etz Chaim, and Costco.
Living is what I do. Dreaming is what I hope to do.
Wait—no. Living is what I do. Dreaming is what I will do.
My Pre-School play house has crayon scribbles and marker smudges.
My George Walton has locker dents and half-tempo clocks.
My dreams have empty Microsoft Word documents.

If I am the child, and I dream in my Pre-School play house, and I live in George Walton, than who are you?
Is the entire world made up of children in play houses going to school?
Is everyone sitting at home, questioning themselves, analyzing themselves, forcing themselves to discover the who, what, where, when, and why of their lives?
I might be the child, but there are many children.
We may only dream and live now, but one day we will live what we dream.
We will twist, turn, and transform.
We will meld, mix, and melt with each other.
It will no longer be Song of Myself.
It will be Song of Ourselves.

And when this happens, what will we change?
The squeak of a broken swing-set can be repaired, but can we stop it from breaking again?
We can become our dreams, but what if our dreams disappear before they are reached?
I have a fear of forgetting.
When I age and wrinkle, I want to remember the tooth marks on my Velcro pizza slices.
To improve, I must remember.
To remember, I must understand.
To understand, I must accept.
Nothing will change without change.
I can make that change.
Wait—no. We can make that change.
We are the children.

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