Letter To The Young Ones

To the young ones,

Oh, how I wish to be you as you wish to be me. You poor thing, of all the things that exist in this world, wish for something else. Think of something new that you could romanticize. Time's a funny, funny thing-- it loves to run and chase you when you don't want it to and it'll never stop. One day, it'll come to you crawling from the grave as it's been waiting there all along, for it's your turn to be haunted. One day, you'll just let yourself go with the flow of drastic seas. One day, you'll want to be young again and swim with the fish in the kindest sea.

Innocent child, it's funny how you wish to be me. If only you know that life is the biggest liar, you'd want to chop off time's legs so it could finally stop from running and chasing every innocent soul. After a decade of moons, you'll soon dream to be a child who knew nothing but wished to know everything, to still be welcome to go through that rabbit hole. Because sweet child, after a decade of moons, new dreams will come. You'll dream of disappearing from the world and be someone else. You'll dream to be Ophelia, or Emma, or Heather, because it sucks to be Augustine, or Betty, or Rebekah, or Este. You'll want to be Rory Gilmore or Paris Geller at some point, or Lorelai Gilmore. Perhaps you'd want to have her as a mother, too. You'll miss your own Marjorie. You'll want to bury James who knew nothing but shit.

Sweet child, it's alright to play with your dolls and let them speak with your voice. It's alright to dream that your dollhouse is your house. It's alright to talk to your imaginary friend because they give you the most comfort. If you want, go run with the dogs and be muddy. Get your tiny bicycle and go around your yard-- it might be small, but it's because the world is huge. Go pick some flowers and put them on your hair, Mother Earth will forgive your innocence. Perhaps get lost with your friends in the forest for a little while, even when you know it all too well, and climb the trees. Maybe carve your names on the trees' huge trunks. Worry not about the wounds, they'll heal soon enough. Worry not about the scars that'll be on your skin, those are the poetic reminders and souvenirs of what you'd experienced and gone through. Worry not about crying, just let your tears fall, for your emotions aren't birds that should be caged. You see, the clouds never hid their tears. Let yourself be wild and free until you haven't had the urge to disappear and be unknown. 'Til then, you're innocent, but that doesn't mean you know nothing.

Sweet one, stop trying to chase time. Someday, it'll disturb your peace. It'll be your turn without warning, as you try to play hide and seek with it. And this is the game that has no fun. Someday, you'll be as sane as I am.

From the mad woman who knew nothing about life,

Me.