As far back as I can remember, I never wanted to grow up. Whenever faced with the idea, my instinctive reaction was consistently pessimistic. “Don’t you wanna stay out late and be able to drive and… ?” All the incentives being thrown at me were meger in comparison to the misery that I, from a young age, couldn’t help but notice came along with the wrinkles and sunspots. The fogged distorted lens of the world that we look through for the first couple years of our lives was abruptly transparent for me. I understood the dynamic and my comparatively comfortable position in it. Regardless of the indirect costs I'd paid, I was merely an observer to the weathering wounds of reality being inflicted upon the adults in my life. At the end of the day, none of it was actually my problem. I didn’t take it as a coincidence that the dialogue between most people consisted of exchanging life’s stresses, the weather and money (or lack thereof). Everyone around me seemed either overwhelmed and panicked or had already thrown in the towel. It was a vicious mindset of which I wanted no part.
Although I didn’t make it out unscathed, my parents fought tooth and nail to shield me from the monsoon bestowed on them. Wielding lonesomely, a flimsy umbrella unsuited for the harsh conditions. The cold aches, stiffening joints as the water erodes away at their skin, carving crevasses comparable to canyons. Case workers and overdue bills banging at the door like claps of thunder quaking in shortening intervals. A reminder, a timer almost, forecasting an impending catastrophe.
I’ve since learned, I was wise in my adolescence. Everyday, ferocious waves extend the wrack zone deeper into my mind— Enslaving me to the task of clearing the streets of my subconscious in hopes of one day holding the pen that writes my tragedy. Until then, the storm persists, weathering its victims away into sediment, fragments of the boulder plans we had for ourselves.