Living Life Differently

She never was content with doing the same thing the same way more than once.  After she mastered tying her shoes, she had to do it faster and then with her eyes closed.  If she could do a trick on her scooter using her right foot, then it must be completed with the left.  Anyone can walk through the house with in the daylight or with the lights on but not many people can master the steep stairs in pitch darkness.  But she could.

The English language was far to straight-forward, she made up her own modes of communication.  The inanimate objects that surround us must serve some higher purpose, she assigned them personalities and goals and gave life to a weary world.

This world could not contain her, logic and gravity had no claim on her soul.  There were infinite lands to be explored and infinite ideas to be born.

This wasn’t a hectic rush to break social norms but an intentional oblivion to society’s restrictive ideas of how to live.  This wasn’t being an individual just for the sake of standing out in the crowd but forgetting that the crowd existed.  This was forgetting that the wind tangled others’ hair and that the sun warmed others’ faces.  This was forgetting that the map of life already had boundaries etched into it and a compass pointing everyone in the same direction.  This was living life differently.

I am still here.

I’ve had a splendid childhood.  However, there are parts that I now have negative associations.  The odd thing is, whenever I think of those parts of my life, I tend to feel like I am thinking about someone else’s memories.  It doesn’t feel like it was me that couldn’t talk properly until she was 12 or danced for 10 years of her life or used to make excellent pottery in her spare time.  This is scan09_03_1130possibly because I can currently talk coherently, can’t dance to save my life, and my last pottery experiment looked like, well, an experiment.  I have changed yet that doesn’t mean that who I was isn’t part of who I am now.
My eager anticipation for everything and anything.  I still get flutters every time I check the mail even if I am expecting absolutely nothing.  You just never know.
My ability to talk to inanimate objects.  Most of the clocks, shower curtains, and lamps in my house have personalities.  They don’t talk back anymore sadly but there is still an aura about them.  For example, the clock in the downstairs bathroom is incredibly lonely while the living room one is quite shy.
My desire to talk in general.  To be quite honest, my estimation of you will go up tenfold if we can hold a decent conversation that moves past weather and school.  I am not completely against small talk but I prefer discussing something that actually has value.  Personal preference.  I will overuse the word conversationalist when describing someone I respect and enjoy.
My inability to stop.  Stop thinking, stop wondering, stop working.  Productivity fuels me.  Complacency stifles me.
My insatiable desire for books.  I may have moved from historical fiction to biographies but I still sneak down to my basement and pick up a few Goldenbind books once in a while.  Nothing but the classics.

So, yes there are things that seem so un-Chloe that I cannot believe that I was the same girl as the one in the picture.  Yet if you look past the straight hair, I am still there.  I am still here.  And I always will be.