writing

I'm not convinced that time is linear. Occasionally I daydream in class. A day passes by as the professor changes slides. My mind often drifts to memories or make-believe moments of people who exist only in the past. When they drift out of my existence, they stick to my thoughts vividly for months or longer. Those strangers we meet can feel familial after an initial conversation. Although it is against my logic, they strike through me metaphysically. I'm coming to think that the way we perceive time is based solely on what we choose to remember.

A few summers ago I was a teacher's assistant for a middle school's writing program. The class was your run-of-the-mill suburban group. Half of the students were book worms, half the student's had moms who wanted book worms. Once the students were acclimated and the tone was set. One girl caught my attention.

She glowed, had an aura of individuality. Wasn't afraid to say what she felt, and said what everyone felt. She was deliberate, easy to talk to, and aware of how she came off to her peers, yet wasn't concerned with herself when she spoke to others. She felt a love of people and connection wholeheartedly, such that there was no room in her mind for self absorption or negativity. Her lack of insecurity and self awareness made you feel uncomfortable at first, but her charisma spread like crab weeds. To the class, she was the protagonist of a book or theme of a symphony, shining through in subtle, moving ways.

I read her first essay, an introduction and explanation of herself. She was the daughter of a single dad, and a few minutes elder to her twin brother. As a child she had the fortune of little supervision, independence, and solitude. She frequented the classroom library, exchanging short stories and coming of age classics. In her essays, she cultivated a repertoire of characters from her recently read books and notable poets. After the day was over, I'd ride my bike home, passing by the school yard. I remember spotting her - bobbing and weaving among a crew of loitering kids.

Summer ends. Time passes. Pointer clicks. Slide changes. The lecture continues.

She's always been a standard I hold myself up to. I've never had luck with people. Probably due to my social anxiety, and lack of self-awareness. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a cinema aside two strangers, focused on our arm rests, rather than the big picture. In a conversation, I like to imagine my stream of consciousness is a shepherd, herding my thoughts and beliefs into something whole. Its a blessing and a curse to see past someone's eyes. I'm quite neurotic, hyper aware of myself and the unease it puts in the posture of others. My peers notice my discomfort as I resemble something closer to a herding dog, running in the space between myself and others. In the face of my insecurities. Like a nostalgic scent, I've grown an obsession, to return to those moments, and love as fearlessly as she.

That period of my life is a lost trail, as if there was a way to trace back to or stumble upon my former self. To clarify, she is no stranger, but myself. My time in high school that followed middle school is distorted. During that period, I often felt like a buoy, mooring narcissistic and abusive boats, drifting and drowning in stress. When you live the life of buoy for so long, you loose track of yourself, associating more as a wave in a seascape. I had lost my self-worth, and slip away to a simple past. I can't remember much from this time of my life, and I don't think I chose to remember or forget this period. When you live in the past, the present slips by.

I'm learning how to feel alone, uncomfortable, and weird.