It's a little depressing, and I don't know what to classify it as.
Poem? Narrative? Random bit of nonsense? You decide.
My feet drag me through the chill airport. I clutch my purse as if it's a safety harness, and pray a miracle will happen.
There he will stand, in his usual attire of cargo shorts and running shoes.
His warm embrace will entrap me, and the pain will ebb away.
My father will take me to safety.
Take me from the insanity that has nothing- but ultimately- everything to do with my life.
No longer will I be stranded on the tip of an eggshell, that's just waiting to crack.
No longer will I have to force myself to remember that in the real world, something called 'consistency' really does exist.
I imagine a place of stability, love, and comfort.
Not my hollow life of petty joys and unrelenting downfalls, disappointments.
But, she will be happy. Euphoric, even.
No longer will I have to witness her life crumble to bits every five minutes.
She will find what she is looking for. Something only she can see.
My Mother.
I will wait patiently for the day where my childhood will really start.
Of course I was a child. At some point or another, we all were.
But, I can't recall a single time where I felt pure elation.
No dreading the future, no worrying about situations that are out of my control.
No fearing the inevitable.
But, all of that is too much to ask.
What have I done to deserve the gift of happiness?
Nothing, really.
Now, here I sit in the stuffy car.
Waiting for them to return.
Waiting for chaos to make his reappearance.
Right now, the other side is so far away.
And, honestly, I'm too fatigued to make the effort.
My Mother's happiness is like a whisk of smoke.
Barely substantial.
But always visible, attainable.
And, just as it's in your grasp, it fades into nothing.
So, there you are. Left to start from scratch.
Finding the perfect candle, relighting it, and praying that your efforts will prevail.
They never do.
Why is it that I can never be happy, knowing she is not?
Her fury becomes my fury.
Her distrust becomes my own.
I hate it.
Yet, I persevere. Begging for this inexplicable connection to break.
Am I asking too much? To live my own life?
The cost seems to increase with each day that passes.
I will wait patiently for the day where my childhood will really start.
Of course I was a child. At some point or another, we all were.
But, I can't recall a single time where I felt pure elation.
No dreading the future, no worrying about situations that are out of my control.
No fearing the inevitable.
But, all of that is too much to ask.
What have I done to deserve the gift of happiness?
Nothing, really.
Now, here I sit in the stuffy car.
Waiting for them to return.
Waiting for chaos to make his reappearance.
Right now, the other side is so far away.
And, honestly, I'm too fatigued to make the effort.
My Mother's happiness is like a whisk of smoke.
Barely substantial.
But always visible, attainable.
And, just as it's in your grasp, it fades into nothing.
So, there you are. Left to start from scratch.
Finding the perfect candle, relighting it, and praying that your efforts will prevail.
They never do.
Why is it that I can never be happy, knowing she is not?
Her fury becomes my fury.
Her distrust becomes my own.
I hate it.
Yet, I persevere. Begging for this inexplicable connection to break.
Am I asking too much? To live my own life?
The cost seems to increase with each day that passes.
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