You always hear it: people change. And in some ways that's true. They get taller, they get trimmer, they get fatter, they get stronger. People change. But the basic person that you love still stays the same. They still hate chocolate spinach pie. They still are secretly opera enthusiasts. They still do that funny thing in their throats when they laugh. They are still themselves.
I wonder at what point they stop being themselves.
I wonder at what point you give yourself up to the demands of society and lose your individuality, so to speak. I wonder at what point all your scar tissue begins to cover your whole soul so that you don't know how to open it up anymore. I wonder at what point you are so hurt, so calloused, so desensitized, so jaded, so broken, so assimilated, so thoroughly trained to be a perfect little adult that you forget how to be different.
If I could, I would take your hand if you feel crushed and lost and broken. I'd take you some place where you can be a child again and do the things that seem good to you, without anybody to tell you that you can't. Or that your dreams are worthless. Or that you'll never be anything. Or that unless you're a hopelessly depressed, unoriginal, boring person like everyone else, no one will ever like you. If I could, I'd wait until you were all relaxed and comfortable, and then I'd throw a mud pie at your pretty face. And then I'd run away because I know you're going to do the same thing to me. And at the end of the day we'd be dirty and tired, but we'd feel pretty good.
If I could, I'd teach you how to hold hands again. I'd teach you how to move one foot after the other and pick yourself up when you fall down. I'd teach you how to trust and how to laugh and how to smile again, even after you've been hurt so much. I'd teach you that it doesn't matter what you've done in the past that counts, but how you choose to face the future. I'd teach you that it's okay to sing in the elevator and to stand up and rock the boat and to dance no matter how many people choose to stare. If I could, I'd teach you how to laugh at stupid things that mature people don't laugh about anymore. I'd teach you how to sled down a hill when there's no snow and how to give hugs and kisses when you're all sticky with ice cream. I'd let you write your gothic poetry and secretly I'd laugh at it, but then I'd buy you the roses and the irises and the chrysanthemums that you like so much. Because if I could teach you anything, it's to know that I love you.
If I could teach you, I would. But sometimes I cling to my scars and I forget how to stand when I get kicked down and I use the wrong fork at a fancy dinner and everybody laughs at me behind their lacy fans and I get embarrassed.
Sometimes I forget.
And when that happens, I need you to teach me. Teach me not to change.
I wonder at what point they stop being themselves.
I wonder at what point you give yourself up to the demands of society and lose your individuality, so to speak. I wonder at what point all your scar tissue begins to cover your whole soul so that you don't know how to open it up anymore. I wonder at what point you are so hurt, so calloused, so desensitized, so jaded, so broken, so assimilated, so thoroughly trained to be a perfect little adult that you forget how to be different.
If I could, I would take your hand if you feel crushed and lost and broken. I'd take you some place where you can be a child again and do the things that seem good to you, without anybody to tell you that you can't. Or that your dreams are worthless. Or that you'll never be anything. Or that unless you're a hopelessly depressed, unoriginal, boring person like everyone else, no one will ever like you. If I could, I'd wait until you were all relaxed and comfortable, and then I'd throw a mud pie at your pretty face. And then I'd run away because I know you're going to do the same thing to me. And at the end of the day we'd be dirty and tired, but we'd feel pretty good.
If I could, I'd teach you how to hold hands again. I'd teach you how to move one foot after the other and pick yourself up when you fall down. I'd teach you how to trust and how to laugh and how to smile again, even after you've been hurt so much. I'd teach you that it doesn't matter what you've done in the past that counts, but how you choose to face the future. I'd teach you that it's okay to sing in the elevator and to stand up and rock the boat and to dance no matter how many people choose to stare. If I could, I'd teach you how to laugh at stupid things that mature people don't laugh about anymore. I'd teach you how to sled down a hill when there's no snow and how to give hugs and kisses when you're all sticky with ice cream. I'd let you write your gothic poetry and secretly I'd laugh at it, but then I'd buy you the roses and the irises and the chrysanthemums that you like so much. Because if I could teach you anything, it's to know that I love you.
If I could teach you, I would. But sometimes I cling to my scars and I forget how to stand when I get kicked down and I use the wrong fork at a fancy dinner and everybody laughs at me behind their lacy fans and I get embarrassed.
Sometimes I forget.
And when that happens, I need you to teach me. Teach me not to change.
Community Member
That hit home.
I adore you, ya know?
A perfect piece of literature. . .So moving.