Right now, I'm in a weird time in my life.
I like observing other people who have a lot of...
Person has house.
House has nice things in it.
Old wooden doors, per se.
Or slightly shimmery, rough but still charming hardwood floors.
Perhaps light blue shutters
Or silently elegant archways
Leading into a squeaky wedding-registry-kitchen-goodies-filled kitchen.
And they make this house their own.
Stamp it with their style.
I envy that.
Person has kids.
Born after hours of planning,
Exciting potential naming,
Preparation for new life,
Complete with perfect little yellow booties
And a cutesy-cute nursery.
Sparkly purple "WELCOME HOME BABY" sign
For right before all those darn-it-not-super-fun sleepless nights
And they make this kid their own...possibly not meaning to.
Love it with finesse.
Have happy, Johnson + Johnson shampoo smelling baby times.
Newborn butterfly kisses good-night.
I envy that.
My room opens into my brother's. He still follows me everywhere. For a time, he was mine, too. Mine to mold with all my extremely lovely ideas about who to hang with and where to eat and what to read on a rainy day. But he doesn't like reading. Or vegetarian food. He doesn't have so many friends...he has "groupies"...not my style, really.
So I'm shaking and shaking and shaking him off. He follows me everywhere. If I go on a bike ride, "OH LOOK! There he is...again." A weird point in my life where I don't have real privacy...or real things, really. Things I bought, for myself. I have real answers to college application questions, and real school projects, and a real driver's temps test that I can't seem to pass...which reminds of Pre-Calculus...
And I'm too immature for real mine things, apparently.
But I wonder...
Is anyone really mature enough?
Maybe they just tell themselves they are
Everyday really fast
Like a sprightly pixie covered in fairy dust...they're mature enough for mine things.
The way I'm not