My Patchwork Fears

A discussion is frozen in my mind, a chance encounter where we stumbled upon some sad truth; that truth which was not fully discovered until I found myself alone, quietly shoved into a reflective state. As fear continues to slowly fray my stubborn invincible youth, I cannot help but to dwell in my thoughts.

It was a substitute teacher, sadly reflecting on the death of a popular comedian. In some quiet moment she mourned for the loss of his individual humor, in the gifts that he alone could grant to others through laughter. For each person has their own gifts that no other person possesses, and when the black sheet of death stubs those talents, it is only those who loved that remember. No recreation of what was, despite imitations and reminiscing... and it is so finite. So quietly disheartening.

Another day, in the same room. A silent sadness seemed to overtake my heart, yet as the music filtered through the air it penetrated any trace of awkwardness and somehow spun together our silent thoughts. A peaceful patchwork silence: a quiet dance step, a written message filled with meaning and reflection, splattered colors illustrating previous passions and the blurred vision of something beautiful. Even when nothing was said, it was understood.

Supposedly the next few years will define what our life will become: a critical time in which our personalities are formed and our future is shaped. I despise this box they have created: these expectations, the grey lines that promise to outline the path my life will follow. I cannot envision being satisfied with any one thing, for in my inherent indecision, how will I ever choose a path for my life? And despite how juvenile and irrational my fears seem to me, it has always seemed a better alternative to sink rather than to skim the shallow surface.

How strange everything has become, how foreign and lonely it all seems.