What I Did This Lifetime
Sep. 30th, 2003 10:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherynscaleI enjoyed a happy childhood, except for the parts where I discovered that strapping giant coloring books to your arms and jumping from the top of the swingset would not allow you to fly, despite your desperate flapping.
I went to school. I learned to make baklava, play the clarinet, solve equations and argue about things. I argued about things: the meaning of right and wrong, the best way to live your life, whether the universe was subjective or objective, whether it was worthwhile to argue about these things or not. Sometimes I was right. Sometimes I was wrong. Sometimes I even admitted it when I was.
I sought out new experiences. I learned to do magic. I ate snails. I walked through fire. I explored. I experimented with my thought process and with my brain. I took a lot of drugs. I had insights about the nature of the universe that I later regretted telling people about. I had insights about the nature of the universe that I later regretted not telling people about.
I was ill a lot. I had to have someone carry my books for me in college, since I was frequently not strong enough to carry them myself. I did too much and over-extended myself. Sometimes this resulted in new and fabulous things, a new program, craft, or idea. Sometimes this resulted only in my own crash and burn sequence and no gain.
I was afraid of people. I was afraid of being alone. I tried to get over it. I tried to do things that made me uncomfortable frequently. I was afraid of being noticed. I acted out so that people would notice me. I was afraid of being out of control. I sought out situations I couldn't control. I was afraid of love. I never got over that one, even though I loved more people, places and things than I could count.
I loved singing dirty songs, playing games, telling stories. I loved the sweet and spicy taste of honey and cinnamon, the smell of a crackling clove cigarette, the feeling of standing face first into a strong wind. I loved the feel of skin on my skin, the salt taste of sweat. I loved to watch the dancing spirals of cream in a cup of hot coffee. I loved words the best, the feel of them in my mouth, the roundness of vowels, the liquidity of l's and w's, the rhythms of speech.
I wrote, but not enough. I learned, but not enough. I played, but not enough. I sang, but not enough. I was not ready to leave. I was ready to leave any time.
I went to school. I learned to make baklava, play the clarinet, solve equations and argue about things. I argued about things: the meaning of right and wrong, the best way to live your life, whether the universe was subjective or objective, whether it was worthwhile to argue about these things or not. Sometimes I was right. Sometimes I was wrong. Sometimes I even admitted it when I was.
I sought out new experiences. I learned to do magic. I ate snails. I walked through fire. I explored. I experimented with my thought process and with my brain. I took a lot of drugs. I had insights about the nature of the universe that I later regretted telling people about. I had insights about the nature of the universe that I later regretted not telling people about.
I was ill a lot. I had to have someone carry my books for me in college, since I was frequently not strong enough to carry them myself. I did too much and over-extended myself. Sometimes this resulted in new and fabulous things, a new program, craft, or idea. Sometimes this resulted only in my own crash and burn sequence and no gain.
I was afraid of people. I was afraid of being alone. I tried to get over it. I tried to do things that made me uncomfortable frequently. I was afraid of being noticed. I acted out so that people would notice me. I was afraid of being out of control. I sought out situations I couldn't control. I was afraid of love. I never got over that one, even though I loved more people, places and things than I could count.
I loved singing dirty songs, playing games, telling stories. I loved the sweet and spicy taste of honey and cinnamon, the smell of a crackling clove cigarette, the feeling of standing face first into a strong wind. I loved the feel of skin on my skin, the salt taste of sweat. I loved to watch the dancing spirals of cream in a cup of hot coffee. I loved words the best, the feel of them in my mouth, the roundness of vowels, the liquidity of l's and w's, the rhythms of speech.
I wrote, but not enough. I learned, but not enough. I played, but not enough. I sang, but not enough. I was not ready to leave. I was ready to leave any time.
