nobody knows

I didn’t mean to let this sit so long. There’s a story here that hasn’t been told.

It’s the story of a 14-year-old girl walking her dog under the shade of oak trees in the California sun. She wondered why she had to feel this way. She was scared of her feelings. Her crush had written her a letter. He liked her, too.

Why, if she had food to eat and air to breathe, why did she have to have emotions, too? Even at 14, she was scared of rejection.

Fast forward a thousand years. Her heart’s been broken many times. He loved her—and still does—but he had a higher calling to attend to.

She will always love him.

At 1,034, she’s a million years old. The world is her oyster, but even that is not enough. She’s one in a billion, and her story is the same. How can she matter? How can this mean . . . anything?

She’s seen a lot in a million years. Most recently it’s been adults acting like children. At our cores we all want the same things—love and acceptance. Why is this so hard to admit?

. . . and where are all the dreamers? The ones who think beyond the here and now? They are few and far between, it seems. And she doesn’t understand.

And so she fights for her life as she rides out life’s storm, and she fights for her life on the train. And she goes . . . nobody knows . . . Except for the dreamers. They’re one in the same.

P.S. Happy Independence Day, America.

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*Featured image: Mine. Taken in Knoxville on a bike ride two days ago!!

14 thoughts

    • The post ties into the song. Sort of a reflection on the distance one sometimes feels from their surroundings—like an introvert at a large party. It’s the distance one sometimes feels from the activities of those around them, a lack of understanding of others’ behavior, a feeling of tiredness of bad news. I’ve been busy lately but on top of this have struggled to think of worthwhile topics to write about. There is nothing new under the sun, so to speak, or maybe I’m just a million years old.

      • I think writers have a tendency to have the insights of those who’ve been around a long time, giving them the impression there’s little new under the sun. I’ve found that, when I feel there’s nothing worthwhile to write about, my mundane life suffices because it differs from everyone else’s.

  1. Yes, to an anonymous blog. I don’t blog as much these days as I used to and part of the reason is that most of the things I want to write about I can’t on a blog that family, friends, and co-workers read.

    • that’s the thing isn’t it, I have lots of stuff to write about but I’d have to have an anonymous one too, away from family and friends. I wonder why we don’t want them to know who we really are!

      • It’s not that we can’t be who we really are, but that our stories are intricately interwoven with others’—both for the good and bad, the wonderful and the painful. We are sensitive to those others and their and our own privacy. Maybe they have things they’ve never worked through; maybe we do. It’s complicated, and while I wish we could always be transparent, it’s a fact of life that we have to be careful about what we share.

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