As a little girl, I used to dance in rain puddles. Now, I stomp in piles of my own shit and wade through the quicksand that is my past.
When I was younger, I built empires and fantasies in my mind, I hitchhiked through galaxies and floated through the night on magic pieces of paper filled with spells that teleported me into a literary universe.
Little did I know that growing up meant renting out spaces in my mind to a dark, empty void teeming with loneliness, always questioning itself, always chasing its own tail, round and round in circles.
When I was a wee little thing, I spent hours solving puzzles; the harder the better. I would sit for hours, legs folded, furrowing my little brows in hard concentration, refusing to move until I had solved the mystery.
I wish I had given up then. It would have saved me a lifetime attempting to solve the most unsolvable puzzle of all - the Self.
The mind remains a beautiful mystery, but when the going gets hard, when all you want to do is sulk and hole yourself up in your room and sleep all day, the clutter throws up a random memory like the coming out of the sun through misty grey clouds - reaching to the sky on a high swing, laughing at the skating rink after winning the race, or meeting your best friend after school for an ice cream. And just like that, you begin at the beginning, all over again.