sarah jay (corruptedflight) wrote in becomemymuse,
sarah jay
corruptedflight
becomemymuse

I am defiant against change. The future pulls me, drags me, across the concrete of time. I dig my nails into the pavement and fight the entire way, kicking and screaming like a three year old throwing a temper-tantrum - there are claw marks lining the paths of my life and all I have to show for them are my bloody hands. God, they're ugly. Scarred and twisted and gnarled. I am constantly ashamed.

For the last four years I've been ignoring change. I've been trying to go about my business while the future tugs at my collar and bumps me around; I pretend like I don't feel the ground sliding beneath my feet or the scenery changing. I shut my eyes. When I gain enough courage to peak out from behind my disfigured hands, the speed at which I'm being pushed at terrifies me and I immediately go back to the familiar view of the inside of my eyelids; I choose comforting darkness over spinning images.

There have been a few occasions where I have sat, wide-eyed, and watched the other people move around me. Some were slower than me, but trudged forward without having to be dragged or pushed. I whizzed by them and waved while they continued on, offering me a grim smile of acknowledgment before forcing another leg in front of the other; some were faster than me, and I barely had the time to glance at them in awe as they sped past me with proud smiles on their faces - again, there was no one forcing them forward. They moved freely. I was openly envious. Others were like me, stubborn and sulking, with hands frayed and torn from fighting so hard for so long. Not all of them had their eyes shut, but the ones that didn't either stared vacantly into the distance or cried silently. Needless to say, I hid my own hands and averted my eyes elsewhere. Everyone moved at different speeds, which seemed odd to me - shouldn't time be universal? Children slugged along, being carried and cradled into the future - well, most children. 3 months of summer, for them, dragged on - while I blinked my eyes from summer to fall and gasped when I realized how much time had actually passed. I saw so many people go by me, and an equal amount of people watched me slide past. Sloth like to Speedy Gonzalez, I saw it all. I had even witnessed a few that were spiraling backwards - these people spoke in incoherent sentences while their tongues lolled out, but at least they were headed somewhere.

That's how I feel about myself when my eyes are open - well, at least I'm headed somewhere.

As soon as I plunge myself back into darkness (a lot of the time this is caused by a particularly lost soul with blood-stained fingers - I don't know why this produces so much sadness for me, but it does) I completely change my view on the world.

It's safe here, I think to myself, I want to stay here for just a while longer.

And, in the back of my head; I want to stay here for forever.

This cycle has been recurring for years. I am growing weary and tired as I get dragged around, but I'm either too lazy or too accustomed with hiding to get up and start walking by myself.

I've had flashes of inspiration, motivation - but before I can even begin to stand, I remember the grim smiles on the faces of those going slower than me, the pain etched in their brows, the sweat glistening off their skin from the effort. I tell myself that it's much more comfortable to be pulled along by something else.

Other times I fool myself into thinking that I can go from a reluctant child being shoved and prodded to a gliding, proud-as-a-peacock functioning adult without doing any of the work. I sit and imagine all these images of me passing everyone by, smiling and spinning, speeding around so effortlessly that I barely have time to catch the awestruck faces of those around me. Somehow I always end up back in reality, although it takes me a while, and as my situation becomes clearer and clearer I grow more discouraged until I lose all inspiration, motivation.

So I sit here, confused, aware of what I need to do but still staring vacantly and occasionally crying into my mangled hands. I dig my feet into the ground to try and stop change, to try and stop the future from taking me with it... but at the same time I yearn for the ability to climb up onto my wobbly legs, I want to be able to move and project myself forward.

We all move at different speeds, but I feel so much slower than most.

I just need to keep my eyes open longer and accept change, accept the future, accept my ugly hands, accept my responsibilities and accept that I need to stand up and walk alone.
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