One Shots

Midnight

I think the question is, when did midnight stop being a big deal? When did we become uninterested in sitting on the couch in blue and pink cotton pajamas, with bowls of buttered Orville popcorn in our laps, watching cartoons and the clock, waiting for that number twelve to appear on the screen? When did the whispered words of, "it's midnight" lose all meaning for us, slipping away under the folds of too much homework, and babysitting jobs, and parties? When did one o'clock stop being a big deal, and two o'clock, and three o'clock? When did seeing the sunrise become a sleeping pill?

Its midnight now.

And I feel like it's only me who has noticed.

The way the small hand, and the big hand have linked, in a straight line, pointing to the top of the clock. Balancing like the twin towers, before they toppled like a stack of childhood building blocks, going down in flame, and ash, and blood. Nobody else can tell that we're burning up inside. Everybody else is occupied with fixing their smeared mascara in the bathroom, or the girl sitting on the couch with the low cut top, and high hemmed skirt.

It's become second nature for me to come to a place like this. To see it as a way of living my life to the fullest. But can I honestly call this moment special when I know I'll just get home and wash off my makeup, and curl up under my comforter and this night will just become 'one of those nights'. One of those nights where the sky is dulled by the neighborhood lights, all turned on, shining from behind thin cloth curtains, and flickering from television sets like candles on steroids. And, yea, I will admit I'm one of those people with nothing better to do than to be here. I'm one of the girls with a low cut top, and a high hemmed skirt, and a scar on my ankle in the shape of a moon, from that time I tried to give myself a tattoo. I'm concerned with the quality of my eyeliner, and the quality of the music on the radio, and I only ever read for school, or to impress a boy. I milk the idea of the stressed out, anxiety prone, overemotional teenager for all it's worth.

Sometimes there are moments, though, when I wonder why I'm doing what I'm doing...

Wonder when I decided that four-square was boring, that school wasn't fun, that pink was for sissies, that swearing was the only way to make my voice heard. It scares me that I can't trace my life back to those moments. That I can't figure out when it was that a certain part of my mind turned on, or turned off, to create the kind of person who pierces her nose for the hell of it, and drinks vodka mixed with orange juice because that's what everyone else is doing.

Once in a while I see myself like Peter Pan, looking at a Wendy all grown up because...

Once upon a time there was a little girl. Who sat on the couch, watching reruns of Looney Tunes, late into the night. Who set the alarm on her watch for midnight, and waited patiently for its buzz. A little girl who took such complete joy in the idea that she had stayed up to see one day change into the next.

Now there's a girl who's falling asleep on her feet. Whose shoes hurt and head hurts. A girl who's constantly overstimulated, kept awake by loud music, and the feel of a scratchy dress against her thighs. And the world has become a place of caked on foundation, and cherry coloured hair dye. Where midnight doesn't mean anything, and neither does on o'clock, or two, or three, and the days just run into each other, because if midnight holds no meaning...neither does tomorrow.