A Mystery.

Most of you don’t know. You don’t know where I’ve come from and you don’t know where I’ve been. I can remember. Some things, I can remember every detail down to the exact time and color of the hat I wore on that one summer day when I had that terrible short hair phase. I know and I remember and I keep things. I keep things because they meant something, because I want to remember.

My eyes have been focused forward. Five years, five years, where will I be? So much has happened in only three. Five years, five years, what do I want to do? What do I want to see? I will have it, I will have done it, that, and so much more. It’s a matter of time. It’s always a matter of time. Things to accomplish, a list of to-do’s, living in the now, now, now.

And then I remember. I remember what I did. I remember how I did it. I remember why I did it. Maybe not as vividly as before, but I still remember.

It sacks me. Hard. Hard in the heart, hard in the head, hard across the face. It’s not a matter of wanting to be ‘her’ again. It’s not a matter of turning back the hands of time and reliving what it was to be ‘her’ all over again.

It’s just that… ‘she’ existed. ‘She’ was once. ‘She’ has evolved. ‘She’ is unrecognizable from ‘her’. You wouldn’t even think it’s possible that ‘she’ could be ‘her’.

You. Yes you. You might have known ‘her’… and some of you, have known ‘she’. They are one and the same. An evolution.

So then why? Why feel this… this… sadness? This… overwhelming sadness. I am happy to be ‘she’ and I am happy to have been ‘her’. I just… miss some things… you know? I just miss stuff. Stuff…

I’m not running. I did not leave to run away. I came to create something from nothing. I came to begin. And I’ve been moving. I haven’t stopped moving. It’s good, it’s good, it’s a good look they say.

It is. I know. I know, it is.


Sometimes, I just want to be that 15 year old girl who walks into her pastel blue room, crawls into her twin sized bed, opens her journal from underneath her pillow and writes about the teenage angst she experiences at Windermere Secondary. Mom and Faja are home. She can hear him snoring horrendously loud in the room next to her. Her brothers’ dreamcast on full blast just upstairs. She just hates stupid immature high school drama. She can’t wait to one day be somewhere else.

It’s nice to think that ‘she’ was once ‘her’.

Although ‘she’ is making all ‘her’ dreams come true… ‘she’ can’t deny that Home is where she first learned how to… HOW to…


1 Comment »

  1. kim said,

    10/26/2009 @ 6:59 am

    i love you mang.

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