First, there was a rattle. Silvery. I heard it but could not connect to it. Where do I fit in? There must be an answer here.
Next, there was a Middle School dance and I was invited to go by Me, Myself, and I. True by Spandau Ballet was playing that year and I imagined slow dancing with someone, anyone. Just to belong to something; the "It Crowd".
High school halls hit hard. Time to buckle down in my Sperrys and think about college intentions. "What if I wanted to take some time for ME", I shouted in my head. Never mind.
When we cannot connect or plug into the Borg, what is left are paltry flakes of nothingness. Just scraps, but important ones, mind you. Collect them now.
At this point, to "fit in" is to give up an identity. Yours. Breathe light into yourself. Inhale without doubt. Know that you matter more than the Breakfast Club kids. Surrender with good intentions and everything will be just fine.
About the Creator
Raissa Dassel
I have been a poet since my childhood. It peaked during my misunderstood teens and now again in my 50th year of life. It would be an honor to have people respond to my thoughts. I played the piano as a child, too. It is a beautiful life.
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Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Craven3 days ago in Fiction
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