super_frog

i was reading about being eleven and trying to remember just what that was like; when i was a little kid and didn't know things about the world, or didn't presume to know things about the world and the things i did know were the important things, like dirt and earthworms or meatloaf or cloud formations and the distance of half an hour and how much time my life was wasting. i'm pretty sure eleven was the time i was aware of the innumerable sillinesses of playgrounds and halloween, and before i was cynical about things like war and i wanted to be president, astronaut, cowboy, soldier all rolled into one. it was before writing seemed like a good (bad) idea. it was before school seemed like a good (bad) idea.

it was a time when weekends seemed like the one moment of freedom you were afforded because the rest of the time was braindrilling and dentist chairs and talking-tos and time-outs. it was a time when i was legitimate for praying those snowdays here, and watching the skyslush skies for some sign of please, please, please snow. when i was eleven i had shoes that lit up on the back and sides and tickered away my walking stepds. and there was those hopskippit things that counted my joys. there were the woods behind houses with trees that looked like ficuses growing up allover.

now i find myself looking out the window and its grey skies and i wonder why i bothered to come back. there is talk of leaving work early and i wonder if under ice and snow there will be school tomorrow and i wonder why i bothered to come back. i wonder why i bother to come back. i wonder wonder wonder wonder wonder why. why why why. i wonder why. i wonder why i bother.