I'm here with SJB on pause during "Never Neverland" again. It's always that--I don't know why. Maybe I do. In a moment.

Watching her, I began to grin; knowing and recalling that I had seen this incredible woman live in 9 to 5. Then something happened--a bare moment later. I don't know what it was exactly and I'm losing it now as I type, s**t, s**t, s**t--but I was hit with this horrifying notion that I would forget because . . . of my age when I saw her. No, see--in this story, Marigolds, I forget who it's by, I'll look it up later, I promise--it said that the loss of innocence and of youth is gaining compassion. Which relates to this somehow. Hold on, there was something else--

Gotta move on! You talk to an adult, or maybe you are one so recall sketchy mental conversations with yourself; and, of course, their youth days are fuzzy. It's like this, see; That night in the Durango with your pals and your girl, loaded up on the beach with a bonfire highlighting the fringes of messed hair like embers or firefly butts. The crash of the waves; two guys take off and roar into the water, you stay with your girl and scoot closer; feeling her warmth, the distant and intense heat of the fire just humming on your neck, and the cool night air. It's the height of your life.
But then it isn't. I can relate exactly, in a small way. Sixth grade (Elementary school) I did the whole "going out" thing and it was the biggest deal. That and looking semi-decent when I went to school despite that I owned about six shirts. I remember explicitly looking through a magazine one day and being absolutely SHOCKED outta my head that things like "Autumn fashions" actually existed--thought Bonnie on Kim Possible was just going overboard. Kate Sanders from Lizzie McGuire was also right about outfit-repeating apparently; no one does it. 'Cept me, that is. Okay, that set up the entirely wrong scenario. Try again; despite all that, I was really very popular and had my boyfriends and my girls whose parents I called Mom and Dad. I'm losing my point to all this. s**t! No!

Okay . . . I think . . . once I moved away . . . well, I got depressed and my life was changed forever. All right, an excellent example is my friend. After moving, I had a conversation sometime somehow (I don't know the specifics anymore. Which also . . . Mhm.) with her. Somewhere along the conversing, she said she was just . . . forgetting about all her elementary school relationships. You know, now that she was in junior high. And I thought . . . "You're ashamed, aren't you? Now they're just trite, trivial things." I didn't say that, but I didn't drop it; I was shocked and hurt that such great times could just be dumped like that. Dumped like how she cast aside so many little relationships.

I just scrolled back up to the top to see what I was just trying to say and that wasn't it, though it is a good point. There was something . . . Something that, still watching SJB sing, melted my grin away into this face of ultimate, anxious, terrifying sadness. You know the face--the one that in movies makes the viewer feel awkward and form a similar expression themselves; the very exaggerated face that people make of sorrow in charades. Not a rectangular mouth of sobs; but curved down, slightly open, eyebrows in a roll and brought together . . . head tilted maybe.

There was something. I guess, in a small way of saying it as I lost what it was I meant--I'm afraid that this age is too unsteady. Too full of change, hormones, little phases, and shifting inner climates to fully grasp and store those wonderful memories I have now--of Stephanie, of theatre. Does this mean I'm still a child? That I won't be able to hold on what I consider so dear and important to me--that I am not yet capable of compassion and so what I feel is just . . . a fling? A fling like so many of those my friend had--that she cast away? I'm getting better at metaphors and analogies. I like theatrics. This is all from the heart. Now I'm writing from behind like a--a frosted window pane or something. A blur, a fuzz--not connected enough. What started this has settled for now. Do I want it to return?


EDIT: About five or so minutes after submitting . . . Marigolds is written by Eugenia Collier. And while I don't think this had anything to do with my horrendible fright of compassion or lack thereof, I did mention that I didn't know why this is the second time I got kicked into a serious entry during "Never Neverland"--but that maybe I did. It's, you know--Neverland. You never grow up. Ugh, I don't want to type anymore. I also don't want to edit these--I just wanted to say that. Maybe something else too but I can't remember. Stopping now. Bye-bye.