Sometimes I worry that I have started my life too late.
I started loving too late, and have missed out on all the good love, standing in line waiting for the “right one”.
I started being too late, and spent most of my life in fear, hanging out against the wall, counting the flowers in the wall paper and muttering to myself that it is too cold to go outside and play, and maybe instead I’ll just stay in here by myself and watch another episode of The Twilight Zone that I can already quote by heart.
I started feeling too late, and tucked away most of the colorful crayons that draw pictures like love and passion and brilliance and creativity, and instead played with the grey chalks that sprinkled a dusty, feathery hue of aloneness all over the canvas of my life, leaving me solidly entrenched in the walls of my castle, where I could color by myself, in my little grey hues, day after day, and not have to worry about whether some boy could ever find me beautiful, or wonder about love, and why it makes my heart pound so hard, and makes my eyeballs a sprinkler system.
I started seeing too late, the world being a flat and cardboard life until one day it burst into 3-D in front of my face, and suddenly I was living in a pop-up book, where I began to realize I was actually IN the story, not just reading about someone else. This is ME in here, and I’m actually alive.
And I guess that’s it: I’m actually alive. Finally.
And yes, it took so long. And in the space of time it took me to finally wake up from the bad dream that has been my existence, I could have learned to fly a plane, or solved world hunger, or discovered a new solar system. I could have healed the lame, or kissed the unlovable, or mastered some difficult martial art that only the chosen know.
But really, I guess it is wonderful and important for one person to come fully into their life. And so I must decide to agree that time is not my enemy, and finally set aside my pocket watch.