To the most unremarkable things,
Do you ever get tired of being the “justs” and “onlys” of the world?
“Just water for me, please.”
“No, I only want one, thank you.”
“I spilled, but it’s okay since it’s only water”
Some days, I could swear that I’m only water. Necessary to the people around me, life-sustaining to the world, and yet, just there.
I’m transparent; I slip between the cracks on my bedroom floor and splash onto the concrete in the basement, leaving drops of myself everywhere I go.
I try in vain to leave a mark on the world. I pour myself into every space I enter, drip down onto the world, and cover as much room as I can.
I need to be remembered. I need to be important.
I am important, aren’t I?
In first-grade science class, we learned about how water makes up 60% of the human body. I stared at the wall, reading a Dr. Seuss quote about the importance of individuality.
The boy in the back of the classroom knocks his water bottle off the desk and it explodes all over the floor. He looks close to tears, and the teacher is consoling him, patting the water from the floor with piles of toilet paper.
“No, no, don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. It’s just water. We can clean it up.”
Water and I: both told that we are tremendously important one minute and wiped from the floor with the “justs” and the “onlys” the next.
I want to be great, but I can’t because I’m just me. I’m only one person, only one girl. I am only one soul with only one lifetime, and I haven’t learned to cope with that yet.
The number one haunts me. It runs through my mind when I’m trying to sleep; it keeps me up at night.
How will I ever be anything? How can I ever do everything?
Only one of me, only one more hour until my alarm starts blaring again, only one lifetime to accomplish everything I want to. I can’t count sheep because only one makes it over the fence. I haven’t come to terms with the number one yet. I try to avoid it, but somehow, the number always rolls off my tongue with an “only” right before it.
One world, one life, only one chance to prove that I can be everything I want.
I’m slipping. I fall into premade spaces, cut out by everyone who came before me. I find the hole within those holes to fall into.
I want to leave a mark. I want to have someone look at me, look at what I’ve done, and feel something.
But most days, I just feel like water. Dripping down the edges of the world until only one drop of myself remains.
