You asked me what I want to be when I grow up. I told you I don’t want to grow up. You said I had to choose something, just anything. So I told you I want to be sunshine. I could look down upon all of the wild fields, befriend the trees, lay for days in the middle of decaying asphalt roads, and see the entire world in 24 hours. You told me I need to be real.
Real. Real? Am I not real?
Darling. You cannot be sunshine and daisies. I promise you that you are all of those things and you are wonderful. But you cannot choose to grow up to be daisies. To become the sun. Choose something real.
Real. Real? What is this being real?
I’ll say it again. I don’t want to grow up. I want to be the wind so I can whisper the secrets of the world to those willing to listen, blow all the dandelion seeds at once, escort rainbows after thunderstorms, and dance with Autumn. You told me I cannot be rainbows and wind. Darling. You begged me to stop being silly and to give a straight answer for once. Just once.
I got upset and I started crying.
So I started running and gasped that I want to be one hundred thousand footsteps on rocky trails. I want to be important fingerprints in people’s storybooks. I want to be a heart inside of a rib cage on purpose, not just because I’m lucky to still be alive. I want to be important scars on the backs of weathered hands because I think they are beautiful. I want to be a stockpile of experiences placed as tiny notes one by one under people’s windshield wipers.
I need to be more than just a bag of skin hung on wire bones.
So this is me, me breathing through the gravity of reality. I may not be growing up but I am growing older. And this? This is reality; the only real I know. I am right around a corner in the middle of the tracks going somewhere to nowhere because I am right where I am supposed to be.
…but you do not have permission to tell me I cannot be moonshine and dirt.