December 10, 2013
When I was younger, I would have a question for everything. Not just any question that was common for my age. Every question had meaning, but it felt as every respond followed the same overused, dull, and even ignorant response of, “Oh, let’s not get into that” or” You shouldn’t care about how many times wind blows in each second” and wait, it gets better “Why don’t you ask your mom?” Most would find no threat in that last statement, but every time someone said that, it would feel like thousands of daggers were under my feet as I walked over to sharpen my pencil. To this day, the only logical answer that makes sense is that I never had a mom to begin with. I mean, of course I had a guardian, but she wasn’t my biological mother. As the years went on and my age started to increase, my curiosity started to decrease. Every question had been either answered or I just stopped caring, but it didn’t just stop at my curiosity, it started to morph to other things. Every word that I perfectly wrote on paper became someone else’s problem when I shared it with them. I tried to ignore it, but everything kept getting darker and more lonely. The sun turned gray and the wolves started to hang around in my backyard every night just hunting for my pride.