In the hall, I hear Jeff Buckley’s cover of “I Know It’s Over” swaying and sweeping and echoing against the walls. My heart aches. For words so true to be spoken so sweetfully and painfully drives me to desire a drink. Something that burns me as it rushes over my insides. Something that numbs my imagination and my pain if only for a short time. Life has a way of politely lighting the most valued components of my sanity — security, love, hope — on fire. Not just any kind of fire, but the kind even fireman cannot tame and Nature herself will never quiet. The fire has a will, a drive of its own. Slowly the blaze will travel and touch my feet. I’ve been taught not to move though. I’ve been taught to just sit there and pray to God (which is not what I do and likely never will with a true heart) for the fire to just vanish.
Obviously, I’ve been taught wrong. I’ve been taught by hypocrites and children, which benefits me little for I am a child myself. I am a child that happens to be wiser than most, but a child nonetheless.
I’ve grown tremendously without the direct aid of anyone. I’ve taken direction and input, but my ability to distinct sound advice from the ludicrous developed early out of sheer necessity. How many times can one be told not to trust anyone, yet know for a fact life cannot be lived without trusting a single soul? Soon the advice becomes a mere utterance and the utterance becomes an annoyance.
And annoyances are quite frankly fruitless.
So I stand before you as someone a few months shy of adulthood with no adults to guide the way. I can take the applicable advice of my grandmother, but because of her passing, doors to new wisdom have been closed. I’m left on this Earth with a mother who acts younger than me and a family who isn’t doing that well on their own accounts.
So, I close my eyes and purposely mishear a line from “I Know It’s Over”: “Oh grandma, I can feel the soil rushing over my head . . .” And as taught, I seem to be lying here until my throat becomes clog and my heart ceases to beat.