My thoughts are still enchanting all these years later

My+thoughts+are+still+enchanting+all+these+years+later

The significance of what I remember. There were times of darkness—like splotches of stars amongst the otherwise unilluminated sky and times of true triumph that reminded me of why I am who I am. But then there was a whole lot in between: the middle part of growing up that just doesn’t sit right on the timeline of life. 

It was a point where my clothes fit my body just about as well as I fit into the puzzle of life. I was a piece patiently awaiting the day I would leave the other broken cardboard cutouts and finally slide into my place with ease. 

I constructed my personality into something worth remembering, or so I thought so. I meticulously attained bits of people, characters, and traits until I stumbled upon who I wanted to be. I was the true definition of trial and error. A science experiment tested, run, and failed by yours truly. 

I’m not sure if who I am now is who I expected me to be, but—because of the past, quasi-ineffective versions of myself that I’ve discarded—this is who I am now. These abandonments were the models that broke down, the flowers that didn’t grow, the parts of me that could have been a masterpiece before you tore it all up. 

What would’ve happened if I didn’t hold back—if I had spoken the words I wrote down in my forbidden diary, the one that still sits taking up space on my new shelf with old thoughts of an enchanted future, but a troubled present. 

I look back not with sadness or regret of what I didn’t do but more with the curiosity of what would’ve happened if I didn’t hold back—if I had spoken the words I wrote down in my forbidden diary, the one that still sits taking up space on my new shelf with old thoughts of an enchanted future but a troubled present. 

I was complex, confused, and contemplating but ultimately questioning why this middle part of life was required. Why couldn’t I just be the me I am today. I used to actually wish upon those splotches of stars amongst the otherwise unilluminated sky hoping to be me. 

I used to endlessly wonder if things would get easier, but they just don’t. However, I got better, and when that happened, things started to feel lighter. What I failed to realize then, and sometimes forget now, is that if things are, or were, ultimately easy, then something is wrong. 

Things are hard; they’re scary and depressing sometimes, but eventually, the light reemerges. Though this light never appears all at once and rather through little gestures of happiness like the friend that brought me coffee, the girl that refers to me as her sunshine, the practices that end early, the seniors that take me under their wing, the person who stops by for a hug, the endless hours talking in a blue booth at the food court, the clothing order that came a week early, the spring break that is only a few weeks away. You just have to hang on long enough to see the specks of light that make living in the middle worth it. The sun rises every morning.

Life is not a puzzle, and you are not a broken piece with no home. You are just in between who you were and who you want to be. Try not to wish it away.