When I remember the playground at my elementary school, it was more like an amusement park. Slopes were mountains, skies azure blue and delicate breezes carried giggles for great distances, rustling the ruffled borders of my cotton frocks as I dangled from cool, gleaming steel and dropped into wood chips so soft they could cushion any fall.
Even though they didn't really.
When I remember my parents' house, it was more like a safe haven where bad things could never find you. The worn furniture creaked hello, friendly crumbs snared in pills and fuzz, smells so divinely comforting you could eat the air in heaping spoonfuls and my father's voice bellowing from all corners, intrusive and uncontrolled like his clumsy footsteps, chasing away the demons that threatened paradise.
Even though he couldn't really.
And when I remember a night that left me glowing, it was more like the final twist before you finish a Rubik's Cube where you could actually hear the pieces of my life clicking into place. Secrets were divulged, electricity crackled like fire on a candlewick and when I went to the bathroom I actually had to put my hand on my chest and catch my breath like they do in movies because I thought, in those short hours, I had met the someone I was supposed to meet.
Even though he wasn't really.
They say there's no such thing as fiction. But now they say there's no such thing as nonfiction. And I wonder where, lost between two starkly different literary worlds, those who dabble in caricature and color and creative punctuation are supposed to live their lives.
Even though they didn't really.
When I remember my parents' house, it was more like a safe haven where bad things could never find you. The worn furniture creaked hello, friendly crumbs snared in pills and fuzz, smells so divinely comforting you could eat the air in heaping spoonfuls and my father's voice bellowing from all corners, intrusive and uncontrolled like his clumsy footsteps, chasing away the demons that threatened paradise.
Even though he couldn't really.
And when I remember a night that left me glowing, it was more like the final twist before you finish a Rubik's Cube where you could actually hear the pieces of my life clicking into place. Secrets were divulged, electricity crackled like fire on a candlewick and when I went to the bathroom I actually had to put my hand on my chest and catch my breath like they do in movies because I thought, in those short hours, I had met the someone I was supposed to meet.
Even though he wasn't really.
They say there's no such thing as fiction. But now they say there's no such thing as nonfiction. And I wonder where, lost between two starkly different literary worlds, those who dabble in caricature and color and creative punctuation are supposed to live their lives.
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