I remember being a child. I remember being that small, innocent being. I am not heartless, and I am not good at shaping the own small details of my pathetic life.
I sit in class, chewing on the eraser of my pencil. As gross and teeth breaking as this habit was, I couldn't stop. It was one of the only bad habits that I hadn't completely disposed of yet. I remember when I quit chewing my nails, and I was almost completely lost for a while.
I listen to the teacher lecture about how half of us didn't do our assignment. Same old, same old . . .I always did my homework, as sad as that was. I had high expectations to achieve, and it was usually difficult trying to reach them.
My mom always did that to me. Pushed me until I couldn't be pushed anymore. It was ridiculous. I was sick of listening to people tell me how I couldn't do something right, or how I could improve everything I did, from basic thinking, to walking down the sidewalk, to cleaning my room. I wanted to do things my own way, experiment with things until I tweak them the way I want them.
I shake my foot against the side of the desk, bang, bang, banging it over and over again. My cheek is resting on my hand, and my rings are digging into my flesh. My mother's high school ring, and one that she had bought me for my 14th birthday, I suppose my mother wasn't all that bad, but she wasn't all that good either. Sometimes, it was like she tried really hard to be a good mother, but more than often she failed at that, and I was disappointed again. Sometimes she barely remembered she was a mother, and would rather not look at me to see my father's face meshed into the small details of my face. It was like instead of seeing a beautiful daughter, as most mothers do, she only saw the reflections of all the mistakes she had made with my father.
As I've expressed before, I love my dad. If he had enough money to support me, and I had the ability to deal with the mess, I would be living with him in a heartbeat. I couldn't stand critters though, and that's what my dad's house was full of.
My mother only wanted full custody, so she could gain the child support. My father struggles each month just to pay his bills, not to mention the child support on top of that. I realized this, when I was getting nothing out of the monthly money. I did not gain anything, and I only got new clothes once a year. I wondered, where all the money was going. That was before the new living room sets, big screen TVs, new mattresses, beds, house, anything you could think of, we had to have new. We even bought a camper, which we only used once or twice. If it had been my choice, my mother would've been struggling to pay the bills while my dad and I went off on fancy vacations and dug him out of his debt hole, but I guess sometimes, things don't happen the way you want them.
As I remember these things, I realize that I haven't heard a thing that the teacher was saying. I look over to my guy-friend, motioning for him to move next to me, so he can catch me up. He looks around, nervously at first, and then casually. He scoots next to me, without distracting the lecture, and whispers to me with his hand over his mouth and filling me in on all the boring details.
The day goes by quickly after that. Class after class, I sit, staring at the ground. Sometimes, I see people's lives that aren't mine. Maybe they are just daydreams, characters of my imagination. Maybe they are the real people of the world, which I have yet to meet. That happened to me often. I would see something, and later, in the very near future, I would see it again. Dreams, or conversations usually filled me in on what was yet to be. I tuned into the brain waves of some people, as we all mesh into the same mental ocean. I would answer a question split seconds before the person next to me, and they would look at me in awe as they said, 'that's what I was going to say.'
First of all; I wouldn't consider myself a 'psychic.' Second; I had no control over this, 'ability' as you could call it. It was just random splashes of connections. Sort of like I had half of the puzzle pieces, and life kept granting me another randomly, and I would stick it right in the middle of my lifeline. There, the piece would fit perfectly, as another year, or day, or mere moment of my life went by.
Time. What a perfectly horrid thing to waste. It's the most important thing that we could achieve; unfortunately, we cannot gain more. We only lose what we had once. You waste your minute; you waste another chunk of life that you will never have the chance to reuse. So why do many people insist on wasting such a precious treasure? We are only granted one life; even if reincarnated, your life is beginning again, and you must learn to do good or bad all by yourself, for the repeated time.
