Concerning infinite at 18

Mon, 12/25/2017 - 19:22 -- fiction

Dear Future,

 

At 7 years old you were the promise of breezy days

and windy thoughts convinced of my own invincibility.

I was Colossus, man of steel but covered in flower stickers.

You made me believe that victory was the laughter of my brothers

After riding down the big hill with no breaks on a pink barbie bike,

blood pooling from my knees and a smile on my face.

 

At 13 you were the promise of adventure on the horizon,

I found you in the pages of dusty books, and in the trails

That laced and cut their way through back mountains.

You promised excitement. At 13 I also saw sadness in you.

You taught me that things won't always last

as old friends slipped out of my life leaving painful gashes.

You taught me change as you stitched up and cut open my emotions

Leaving me alternatively both old and new. An unfinished quilt.

 

At 15 I chased you as you  flitted through faraway dreams

Catching sight of you at corners, you showed me mistakes

I saw you laugh as I rear ended my first car, and nod as

my chosen sport finally added to my list of broken bones.

but I also saw you applaud as I chose for myself, new friends

New changes. You helped me climb mountains, play the piano,

and gain pride.

 

At 16 you turned, I greeted you from down a long hallway

Waving slightly as I saw my responsibilities grow. At this point

others would notice you. At family gatherings and Christmas parties

They looked on like an expectant audience, or gamblers

Waiting to see if their bet had payed off.

 

At 18 you confronted me, with cracks finally setting in your plaster mask.

At 18 you sat down in front of me with cat eyes and desert temperatures.

You gave me your hands and expected me to know the answer.

At 18 When I looked at you, unknowing and lost

you asked me to find my own control,

and falling from your eyes I saw the infinite.

I saw how the puppet strings that control me also laced my oy own fingers.

My actions, choices, mistakes, failures, dreams were and are my own.

I found the infinite in 18, as neither good nor bad.

 

Thank you. Thank you future and past, mistakes and failures.

I see now that the future isn’t some hidden figure or absolute mystery.

The mask might not be broken, but you are an old friend,

and with the strings on my hands, and infinity in my eyes

change is from right where I am standing.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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