Thursday, April 29, 2010

The Child

I sit down to write. Words have coagulated inside me like a blood clot. They do not flow as freely anymore. But now, if not out of passion, out of sheer boredom, I write.


When do we stop being a child and become a man, a woman? When is our coming of age? Is there one at all? I don’t think there is. Here I am, 19 years old, going on 20. Does the big two-oh make me a woman? Or was I one at 18? I can’t imagine myself as a woman. I am a child. It’s not to say that I haven’t grown up, because I know I have. But I am not an adult. I hope I never become one. I’m a peter pan. Or a wannabe peter pan. I never ever want to lose the child that lives inside me. I have seen adults that are dead in the eyes. Burdened by work, pressure, stress. Money torments their nights. The thought of earning it, losing it, making enough of it, making too much of it; everything about money kills innocence. It makes you responsible, it takes away your freedom and all the while if gives you the illusion of freedom. These adults, with these adult problems, seem alien to me. I dread the part of my life where I would turn into that. I never want to forget what it is like to be a child. I never want to lose the buzz I get when sitting on a swing. I don’t want to lose the love I have for hide and seek. I want to enjoy a chocolate cake with the ecstasy it deserves. I want to feel the rain on my face and be grateful instead of curse it for wetting my clothes. I see adults that run a rat race and forget these tiny things that children find so magical. I see adults with no sense of imagination or wonder. And it frightens me that there’s always a chance that the girl in me that finds magic in things around her, that laughs for no apparent reason, that dances only because she feels like it, would be lost somewhere in the rush of life.

But I am reassured. Parents have this way of being there without being there. Mine give me the confidence that this playfulness will never leave me. I listen to my father make horribly bad jokes and the twinkle in his eye when he says them. I watch him get tipsy and dance. I listen to his deep throated laugh that is never a rarity in my home. He has pressures that weigh him down at the shoulders. He thinks about money too. But I am inspired that he can take his family to the beach and feel the waves at his feet and remember how it was to be a child. I watch my mother too. How she hugs without reason. How she giggles uncontrollably when we crack a dirty joke. How she squeals and jumps like a three year old when she sees me after months. Her eyes, though lighter with age, have a glitter to them. Even now when we talk about my days in college, she contributes and laughs and relives her days as a child.

When I descend from this boy and girl at heart, how could I suddenly grow up? Impossible. I come from a family of children and it explains why I could never let the careless, wide eyed child go from inside me. I settle with peace. I have hope. All is not lost, and shall not be, as long as the little girl lives within.

Thursday, April 08, 2010

Random

You're someone. You're no one. You're a bit of everyone. You're an amalgam of fragments of hearts that I keep, counterparts of the fragments I have given away.

Your hands are not soft. They graze my skin. Roughly. Making their presence known. You are not prince charming. Your hands make the difference. They hurt my fingers when you squeeze them. But somehow, even through the hurt, their roughness attracts me, pulls my fingers closer to yours. Under a bench, hidden in a little shadow, behind a bag our searching hands, rough and sensitive at the same time find each other.

You laugh. Your eyes crinkle. Deep throated, honest, warm. It wraps me in its caress. We share our laughter under the blankets. Little giggles erupting from our sneaky tickles. Jokes that make no sense and were never there now exist because we laughed. This joy I freeze in my mind. I lock it inside an ice cube and put it away from the sun and heat. I preserve it and only in silence and loneliness, I shake it like a snow globe and let the tinkle of laughter fill my ears.

Under the covers our legs intertwine. We mould. Whispers. Sweet somethings that have fragmented meanings. Noses touch. Not like new lovers that do not know the way around each others' bodies. Instead, like one that has treaded my skin a million times before, a single finger traces the arch of my back. The same rough finger giving me goosebumps. It travels down my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. And we just lie there. We look at the ceiling and then at each other and without a sound, we speak. Knowing everything and saying nothing.

Who are you? Where do I find you?