Suffer the Little Children

Sometimes I forget.

It’s not that, when I think about it, I don’t feel that way.

There’s just so much adult around me that I feel it starting to fade.

When I come here, I remember that little girl, standing in the middle of a big, wide world.

And I remember why I’m scared and out of place and disturbed.

Because so is she.

And it’s not necessarily to make excuses.

But I see her with these burdens, not me, and somehow, it takes the stress away, for a moment.

And when I think of her, she is the only solid, defined thing there, and yet

Her eyes tell a story so much different.

There is nothing complicated about her, and yet

Her eyes give her exterior a complexity that projects the soul onto her being.

Her eyes don’t ask to be removed from this place, because she is completely aware of her constantly perturbed state.

Eventually, she thinks,

Eventually, I will figure this out.

But I didn’t figure it out today,

And I won’t figure it out tomorrow, but I can stand here and watch me.

It’s really quite a peaceful experience, watching me.

I am the most fascinating person around, she thinks.

Too bad people can’t see it.

But it’s not something you can boast about, she knows.

It’s the antithesis of promotion; it’s the glimmer you can only see when you tread softly, come kindly. And she catches fakes and phonies-every single one.

So you see, you have to want it. And most people don’t care enough. And some of them, some of them want it with all their heart, but they just don’t fit. And this girl revels in her uniqueness during those times, and feels, strangely, that someone had better deserve it, or she’ll shut the door forever.

But she knows, in her heart, that she’ll open it up one day, fling it wide open and take another soul by the hand, and lead them in, saying,

Come. Come see who I am.

And before that one soul, there will be others. Others that love the little girl, and the adult that she impersonates.

But for now, those girls down the hall might be ones that understand-my guess is that they are. But for now?

I can’t tell. And I’m standing in the middle of black-and-white and rushing grey, and I’m thinking,

I don’t think I belong here yet.

But I’m sure meant to.