snail-woman flower-star

Here and now you are everything you ever wanted to be.

But the moment you look down there’s nothing.

There’s no misty-eyed mother waiting at the airport, there’s no dad who knows what you might want for your birthday. There are no books with a note on it for you. There are no books in fact. There are no memories of quality time with family. What’s scarier perhaps,  is realizing that all those cherished memories you talk about, never happened. They were stories you spun out of an adolescent anxiety to fit in. It’s how you lived on, how you sustained yourself among peers. It’s how you became the grand fabricator.  It’s how you constructed your past to suit your present. But how realistic can a 6 yr-old get? Every two years you realized how your lies were immature, every two years you’ve changed close friends. The old lies remained buried with the old friends.

But, Ms Everything-and-now, what if you meet your kindergarten friend who has forgotten everything you told her about that machine you had at home which could make candies? Would you still laugh and inwardly squirm?

Trophies are the only truth for you. Chunks of metal, engraved. That was the only way to cork up those motherfuckers, the ones who knew you lived lies.

No one questions success- it is branded, definite, impactful but short-lived.  

Is that why you needed so many? And in such quick succession?

Debates. Elocution. Music. Dance. Creative Writing?  And even the one thing you knew you were never good at ­– sports.  But still, you had to be the ‘Captain’ of the Girls Throwball team!?!?!

hahahahahahaaha. Loser!

But yes, there are all needed, that pile of engraved metal plates, globes, medals. That heavier than hell bunch of certificates. They are all needed.

And someday mother, I will lock you up in a room and throw them around your anesthetized senses

‘Take that!’

‘And that!’
‘And that!’
…that!





















And someday soon you'll break
You'll make a grand show of a breakdown.