Issues I have with myself are too numerous, sometimes the list feels ever growing. Growing up was one of them, I wanted to be Peter Pan in NeverLand.
When I grew enough I reached a point where I wanted to be smaller, to fit within the bounds of what I deemed as acceptable; what I saw as reasonable. I couldn’t, or it didn’t work well. It wasn’t the correct course, and I knew it wasn’t.
So I took another route, equally wrong but more accessible:
Folding up my whole life to make my presence smaller.
Tucking things in, rolling and crimping, hoping it would turn out beautiful like an origami flower.
It doesn’t. Mine is a crumbled wad of paper with sharp edges poking out; creased and pressed down so tightly that it would hurt fingers to unravel.
I pluck at it, crinkled and strained, fraying. I ease things until I can see the lines of my decisions, smooth it out to try again. It can’t stay unfurled, the accordion jumble pulls the bits that have been tucked the longest back toward the fold. It’s too uncomfortable to sprawl out, so I fold too.
Inwards pulling the blanket over my head, my life just the covers, just my dreams and my bed. Tuck myself in where the edges are soft and it doesn’t matter if I’m not beautiful enough.
Tangled from tussling in my sleep, I wake at last; I could go out, reach out.
Looking out the window I finally feel small, it’s not in the way I’d hoped.
Instead I learn to hope in new ways. This world is something I want to be apart of, my dreams still glittering at the edge of my vision waiting to be chased. A paper airplane can be made of the crummiest newspaper and still fly, I could still soar. Even if I can’t, a ball of paper can be rolled down a hill. I will roll if I can’t fly.
(My brain rhymes it: Roll or Fly, I’m gonna Try. )