A(1)

Crosses in roads, doors to choose, futures to fulfill.

That’s what people keep telling me and those around me.

We’re proud of you, honey. We love you. We had such good times together.

Dude, you’re hilarious. So funny! You’re insane, man. Awkward, but awesome.

We’ll hear our names, we’ll walk the stage, wear our gowns, get our sheets of perfectly flammable paper, sit back down for a couple hours, and walk up and down those steps.

Fly away, hats, and may you serve as an omen for our destinies soaring into a greater and brighter tomorrow.

This isn’t a crossroads. There are no doors. There’s certainly a future, there are infinite possibilities for that future, but whichever one ends up being fulfilled, it’s certainly not ours.

It’s a Thursday. In 10 days, it’ll be a Sunday.

And we’ll say we’re changing and that this will be the start of something new and hopefully better, but there’s something inside us that’s aching and we convince ourselves that it’s a longing for the old because it’s familiar and we’re scared, but we aren’t.

This isn’t any of the things we think it may be.

This is a book that we’ve become so immersed in, we’ve fallen down into the crease between pages and are slowly wiggling our way through the story, along the seams on the spine until we arrive at a spot, whether it’s the last page or not, where we can find light and take a breath.

This is the middle of a walk, when you fall asleep as the rhythm of the soles of your feet on the pavement, the soft padding of your heart, and the lulling swing of your arms align. When you don’t realize you’re walking until you become increasingly aware of the acid building up in your tired, worn muscles. This is also the rest afterward.

It’s a room where an echo fades faster because it’s absorbed into the grout between tiles.

It’s a desk that has a single screw missing, but it’s right in the position where it’s really not needed, so you’ll never notice. But it’s still not there.

We’ll hug and cry, and say we’ll miss each other because fate will likely not bring us together before the moment we tack on some “Hello, My Name Is”s and show off our spouses to the ones who once held our heart. Though it’s not the same heart they had.

We’re not lying, we will miss these people, at least the versions of them we see right then. Of course, if everyone remembers the version of me that I believe them to, I think I’d rather them forget me altogether. You may be better off to request I do the same for you.

We’re never finished. We may be farther from finished now than we ever have been. So remember me or don’t, it doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re not even thinking of me. Memories are moments. Moments are static. But we’re people, and nothing is more uncertain or undefinable as a human being.

This is nothing we’re prepared for because we’d be fools to attempt preparation.

So say your goodbyes, and maybe you’ll understand why I never said mine.

Because I’ve already said goodbye to who you were yesterday and the day before and the day before, all the way down to when I first made this realization.

Say goodbye, because I’ve done it 1000 times and more, and I’m not saying it anymore.

The hardest part of doing this Arthur thing will be addressing all the characters since there are approximately 12390139831256789613874897 of them.

Mackenzie and I spent a solid 20 minutes talking about the characters from Arthur and where they’d end up in high school/college/”the real world.” This has inspired me to tell these tales in the form of a (web?)comic. So that’ll keep me busy/happy for a while. Hopefully.

And since I posted about the possibility of that happening, it probably won’t…

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I’m in such a weird state of mind right now.

My mind’s running away with itself.

I’ve been rap-tually constipated forever now.

I know what I want to say. All the ideas are there, but they’ve been swelling around for so long that I can’t really pick them out anymore and I had a new idea todaybutIcouldn’t find therightwords when I tried togetitdownonpaperand there wasno rhythm reallyandI’mjust afraid thatmaybenowall the ideaswillendupjustfusing together and then I won’tbeabletomakeanythingout of whateveritwas I was planning.

I’m beginning to think this is what fear looks like in a more complex but understated and underestimated form.

Put away your boogeymen, shadow beasts, and Hell serpents.

When I pursue creation and am flatly rejected by myself? That’s cause for fear.