Story, Unknown

III.

III.

My father always said I was born to write. It was my silent power that nothing could ever take away. That, at least, is what he said. When I was younger, he always thought it'd one day be my job. And that always seemed to make him happy. Truly happy. I could see that much, even if I'd never understand it.

But that was then.

13 years old and that reality was already long gone. Never completely, but just enough for it to fade away in my memory. And it didn't matter anymore. By then, it had already been years since it truly did. To him or to me. It was the same.

It would still come up in casual conversation, but he'd never ask to see it anymore, noticing I'd lost my will. Perhaps, he thought I'd lost my touch. Perhaps he was right.

Besides, I was about to start high school.

My dad, having acquired a promising job that lit up our funds suddenly, had it all planned out already, aiming for private schools since the beginning of the year. Only in the 7th grade, and the next few years of my life were already being analyzed and decided upon. To say it distressed me would be a valuable lie, at this moment. It would make the situation dramatic and, perhaps, a little poetic, as well; being robbed of my rightful choice to create my own future. Who wouldn't like that?

But that wasn't the case. I waited, I listened and I watched. As I have for the majority of my lifetime. Not that it's much of a lifetime to look at, anyway.

And I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all.

Now, I'm bouncing back to it. The passiveness. The main difference being that now, it can't be let go or given up to someone else; even if I wish it could. It's coming and it doesn't pause. Not even for me, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that it will. That, perhaps, tomorrow, I'll be smarter than I am today. That, somehow, for some reason, I'll have an epiphany tonight. It'll resolve itself.

There is a future. With whatever it holds, that is currently a mystery to me, and will remain one until it comes up full-force, considering that I may only be less prepared than I used to be, and somehow pushing it farther. However that's possible.

And I continue letting it go, cackling in my bathroom mirror instead, pretending that somehow, I will be ready, without putting any effort into actually achieving that. Strongly characteristic. I cannot be surprised.

Still, I only wait, frozen in time, letting the years fly past me. As if it's not up to me. As if I'll somehow know, once I have to.

And more time passes. With that, I bounce back here, as well. To this. What for, will always be beyond me. But I'm here. And I stay, typing each word just as I did so many years ago, when, somehow, things made more sense. Somehow, it seems, the more I know, the less I understand. I still wonder how that can be.

And yet, I can't seem to let go.

Delicately, I press the keys. Dead words. That's what I do with my time. And why? I guess I'll never know. But that hardly matters. Things like that hardly ever matter.

Dad came for a visit last month. He stood there in my dorm when I came back inside, having gone on a search around campus in order to catch my Physics teacher before he disappeared for the week, chatting away with Avery, who was in the middle of packing his fencing equipment.

''Here you are!''-he shouted in a fit of laughter. ''Got me worried.''

Panting, I tottered inside, dropping my bag. We hugged.

''I didn't know you were coming.''

''Oh, I figured I'd check on you, you know? See how you're hanging on.''