I wish

I wish

I wish to be someone else, my same person but not like this. No part of this; that is how I would pick life to be like.

I am 7, or maybe 8. I learn a few new things every day. Today I will get “something to cry about”. That’s probably going to start with a smack in the face and where it goes from there is never what I wish life was like today.

I wish I wasn't here, not like right here. More like at all, just not here or anywhere. Not this version of life or in this house; I wish to be erased. Just not hurt or with nowhere to go. Wish to just stop, no more me.

I wish someone wanted me around, maybe if I could wish my wishes true. To just have but one wish….

And as I was writing down my “wish list” of the day in my little black book, the shift in the way the words appeared on the pages caught my attention more than the list itself. I could see the way the letters were absorbed into the paper and how the letters each had its own unique contribution to the word it was creating.

The paper came alive and seemed thirsty for the words I was covering it with, not just words but fulfilling the purpose of the very nature of the little black book itself. The stitching stretched to accommodate the blending of my pen and to cradle my hand as the wishes evolved into more than the fanciful adolescent longing for the solutions to the constant agony of a childhood being stolen. I let the words come out of their own place of existence to build the clarity of the narration that was my piece of contribution to the universe.

These letters built the words that defined my longing to be whole. Each tear drop was transformed into ownership of my own words built on each letter spelling the short existence that was previously being written by the people that wanted to put my existence on their own little black book, limited to their own limited vocabulary.

I was woken to the secrets of my “little black book”. I realized that my own words, built with my own compilation of letters, had their own ability to shape the narration of the person I was being transformed into. I could take a beating and rearrange the letters and add some words that made it into an experience that didn't define the domination of my young body and shade the light that made my young soul age. Empowering the place inside me that these words came from, allowed me to make new blocks that would construct my new foundation. The words allowed me to create a new version of myself, an actualized human being that is now a source of light; an illumination that was radiating from the pages. The narration was now the origin of my strength, the antilogy of the scared boy whose blood flowed from those heinous words that my young body endured.

My “little black book” not only absorbed my ink but encouraged the transformation happening on its pages. Every letter, just as every strike, added to a beautiful creation that was what I gave to the world to be kept alive. It showed me that by me creating, I was no longer being destroyed. A type of birth eclipsed the darkness of the slow stifling death that became the catalyst for the words that would have their wonderful power regardless of a childhood stolen by a world that only understood darkness.

It was as if I learned a new language that not only was made of different sounds but also had a structure of deeper meaning, true definition, and the ability to breathe a different type of air. That language gave me what I never dared wish for as it seemed more unlikely than a wish to fly to come true. It was the only wish that could actually grant all of my wishes. It was for there to be the true ME. These words swirling across the pages of my “little black book” gave that light the chance to exist, to have an imprint on the dynamics of the world seen and unseen. Finally I was real, not theirs, but Mine.