“Formulae”
March 14, 2012. 

When I was in sixth grade, I promised myself I would never forget anything about my childhood. I was determined to always remember who my classmates were, what we liked doing, and the way things worked. Everything was so fresh in my well-rested mind. I could walk the halls with alertness, and a smile would be plastered on my face, saying hi to everyone I knew. The more people I passed, the more names my mind would give to me.

Five years later, here I am. I am disheveled with a mind ripped apart into pieces blown by the wind. My brow is furrowed as my tired eyes show a story that no one knows. I am inches taller, magnifying the awkwardness that runs through my fainted veins. With my heavy backpack hunched over my shoulders, I walk through bigger halls with bigger people. And as the faces pass, my mind comes to a blank. These names I no longer know, and these faces I no longer recognize. Everyone has strayed off from the paths they were on five years earlier. The door to the playpen has creaked open, and we’ve all gone our separate directions. As my sleep deprivation controls my every movement, I pass the girl I made pinky promises with, my next-door neighbor, and the boy that I used to play “tag” with. We’ve all changed so much that even when our paths, meant to stay separated, cross, we no longer acknowledge each other’s existence. We are all so different now, and I don’t know how we’ve come to be like this. Everything was so beautiful when we were younger—as if we were all wearing the same rose-colored glasses, oblivious to the harsh realities that compose this world.

And maybe I want to wear those rose-colored glasses once more. The innocence and naïveté that were so familiar in my life before have faded like everything else I once knew. I no longer remember the names of the people that I’ve shared my whole life with. The paths of our lives have broken off—once doomed to collide, forever apart. We are all lines with different slopes.

And our constants?

To be determined.