Inspired by Honestly, Libby‘s post about her childhood, I’ve decided to write about my own childhood memories, but with a twist: in prose-form! Although I’m more comfortable writing poetry, thought that I would give prose *another* try. Also, I thought that my ideas worked out better this way. Enjoy! 🙂
When I was little, I believed that the past was painted in black and white. Too many Hollywood classics had spoiled me; I would look at the photos from my grandparents’ first date, thinking that my grandmother’s dress was shades of coffee and white cream. That later, sepia made everyday a sunset for them, in love and marriage. And how that magic had dimmed when the world became colored.
When I was little, I was shy. A clam in the ocean, I kept myself hidden under the desk, underwater. I didn’t dare breathe for fear of opening up and exposing my shell; it protected me from sandstorms beneath the deep, from whisperings in the school hallways, “Oh, she is so weird,” from disappointment. In myself, in others. Little did I know that it was my silence that was disappointing me- and them.
When I was little, I lost myself in books. I would curl up with the pages of a paperback, their yellowed sheets threatening to crumble like leaves under my ambition to tame, to consume, consume the story like flames. Cover to end, then all over again. Again and again, this inferno swallowing me up with temperatures reaching 451°F. I burn, I burned, until I reached out and felt the pen from my teeming brain, inspired to write.
– The Finicky Cynic