I remember sunlight and piles of dirt scooted to the side. We were digging, but for what, I can’t seem to remember. Probably just for the dirt in the beginning, but we soon became curious. What could we find if we dug deep enough? We ended up finding three lumps of coal. My mom told me that coal will turn into diamond eventually. You just had to wait long enough. I kept my coal out in the sunlight for a week expecting a diamond to form in that time. obviously, I never got a diamond and I can’t remember what became of that lump of coal after that.
Looking back, I realize that I’m like that lump of coal. Rough and dull and yearning to be something completely different. I longed for beauty and I thought that if I just waited long enough, I would magically shed my ugly exterior to reveal a person who possessed all the qualities I had accumulated in my head. And, of course, I believed that all that would happen in the span of a week. I never thought that I’d still be waiting to this day for beauty to strike me, like a bolt of lightning.
So I try not to speak what I’m thinking, but it always crawls out of my mouth like a bug. Words that still sting after so many strikes. I thought I’d be calloused to them by now, but alas, I still find myself crying in the shower or under the blankets. The people around me never thought I was what I was. They still don’t look at me the same. I cook and I clean and I take care of the few people I care about. I work every day and every day I’m tired. When I’m done working for the few feverish months of summer, I’ll return to a city where only a few know I exist and study the only thing I’ve held a passion for. I’ll return to a boy who once couldn’t feel love towards me, but, somehow, regained it. He’ll tell me over and over again how terrible of a person he is and how wonderful I am and I’ll sit there silently and rip apart the fragile walls of my mind.
I’m like a children’s book to him; short, simple, clear, predictable, and adorable. He feels no need to delve deeper or take my words into consideration. He, on the other hand, views himself as something of a long, drawn-out novel. Dusty and forgotten and misunderstood and depressed. He knows this and he remembers this. How could he not? He talks about it almost every day. I remain as the simple children’s storybook. Bright colors and subpar plots. I’ll paint amateur pictures and eat myself sick. I’ll cry beneath the warmth of blankets and wish my lumps of coal would turn into brilliant diamonds. I’ll pretend like none of this ever happened. I’ll speak words of hate towards myself and feel no pain. I’ll remain ugly and large and heavy and tired. I’m sad. I’m sad every day. The air even seems to grow heavier with each passing day.
I’ll take care of those I care about and work hard to make enough money to take me through college. I’ll cry only when I’m alone and I’ll laugh when I’m with others. I have no choice. It feels like I’ve never had a choice. People have always yelled at me for one reason or another. It scares me. Feelings are something I’ll never learn to deal with. I was born with an excess of them that I can’t seem to dispose of.
Life can’t afford normalcy and it can’t afford assurance. I know that, but still feel its weight. I realize those wishes of beauty from when I was twelve aren’t going to come true if they haven’t already. I have much more pressing matters to attend to, so why am I still caught up in such trivial thoughts? I have no idea. Maybe it’s because if I were to suddenly grow beautiful, then I’d hold some value as a human. People seem to care a great deal about beauty, at least that’s how I’ve always seen it. I’m not talented, I just hold a passion. I’m not smart, I’m merely average. I don’t have a vast collection of knowledge, I know just a few things here and there. And I’m certainly not beautiful, I just have a face unmemorable and pale. There’s no use for me other than just another worker or student or face on the street. Sometimes it feels hard to breathe and the voices get louder. I’m sorry if I sound upset or oversensitive, I shouldn’t even be writing this down. It’s just that I can’t think much about anything other than this lately. Maybe one day I won’t have to worry about these things. But, hey, I’m a kid’s book. Ya know, with cute animals and pretty pictures and good always triumphs over evil.
I’m tired. That’s all. I’m fine, just tired.
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