DAY ONE- Before I Left
The First day of my journey began as a testament to what Henry had called my race to the majority circle. I had always kept a journal of sorts the kind typically used to spew the hate you think no one will ever read about…for the longest time I wrote and never thought of anything else. At the time I started I thought maybe if she thought I was keeping something from her she might sneak into my bedroom late at night or while I’m at school, like you see in the movies, break open the binding and read the inner most thoughts I had longingly splashed across the page.
Maybe I thought in a moment of desperation she may have cared enough to notice I’ve been slowly evaporating away from her, into nothing. When I started to journal I just drew pictures and wrote stories, of cats traveling on adventures and poems of flowers in fall. It wasn’t long before I began spilling my daily routine on to the linen sheets bound in leather mask. Sometimes still I throw in a message; just in case she reads it, I wanted nothing more and that’s why I still write toady.
I thank my mother Grace Owen for the gift of complete ignorance
* * *
Well today is a day just like any other day, I awoke to another dreary morning, yet am i inspired of course: "The seas still overflowing salty breath wafts into a mourning mist across the island horizon, drowning the senses with its brisk flavor warning of yet sunnier days and hallowed evenings."
I can feel and hear and smell the tapping of the light breeze as it blows through the undergrowth disrupting my tiny seedling, which just outside my window by the way, has already begun to cry the saps of summer. I'm excited I guess but given that the trees have just finished their never-ending turn from the tediously dry yellow and brown bore and starkly bare exposure of a naked winter evolving through to the vivid greens and reds of spring, and with summer soon approaching, yet again. Spring will dawdle leisurely through May and then like a fire to the leaves of my life turn much too quickly the dismal death of autumn.
I'm not giving it to much notice. The springs here are weird, everyone’s so filled with hope and wonder, it never changes. Is this to come some kind of summer to end all summers?
Like last year it will surly prove to be anything if not disappointing, the breezes off the water become too hot, and the quarries of salvation turn a familiar shade of toxic sludge, and we are all required to accept the passing of time.
Again, as to do with the summer to end all summer vacations everyone has assumed their optimistic glow of anticipation which means another final ending year.
I, Thomas Owen Miller-Young, as i choose to repeat over again have decided, against my better judgment, or lack there of you know, to remain true to my ever final dropping hour as I am, an average student attending the worst high school in the District.
Lighter news i suppose, Remember that final essay package Dr. Harrison gave us at the start of the semester? Yeah that one assignment, which of course should have appeared easy, has perplexed and preoccupied me. I am not entirely sure I will be able to complete this one. She has asked me to analyze one aspect of myself or my life I may consider to be of all things: ORIGINAL! Ouch!
Originality has never been your finest selling point Thomas.
Herman Kellogg, remember him, remember when I paid him twenty cents to say I thought up the theme to the Berry Kellogg commercials. That was brilliantly original, but then again I guess I was seven. Still it was a bit of funny foreshadowing when you think about it, it was also a lie, I guess I could have tried harder. Not like I'm saying I would do that again these things always comes back on me. Like the fact that Herman ended up popular, and I DIDN'T. I still remember him throwing what appeared at first to be another bag of dog feces at our house, we all know that ended with a bag of cows blood across our front door. Rich right, I don't need to tell you Herman Kellogg isn’t related to a cereal giant. It appears his father owned a butcher shop, not a large corporate cereal company, to which I could exploit. Who would have thought?
But all in this entire originality thing is always a well-misunderstood flop on my behalf. Herman remains proof of that, it's weird I even think about him today. I've never thought about it, it's kind of depressing how I have always been so content simply fitting in to the mold of society. Since I was a kid I never jumped higher than the kid next to me, just in case no one else is watching and in that moment I caught the ball, what do you say? I've always refused to wear sneakers that in the hall would make more noise on the floor than the loudest laughter in the crowd as I walk to class. I don’t answer questions someone else has asked, but that makes sense I guess. I’ve enjoyed my blend; no one has asked me to be original before. I have to think about this.
Sadly Late for School.
* * *
As I put down my pen I could hear commotion in the living room slight yell to her voice, I cracked the door I could only hear half the conversation because she was on the phone but knowing my father It wasn’t good news.
“What do you mean three weeks?” she stands from her seated position on the couch I can see what seem to be tears, I duck back into my room, maybe I can use the back door. When I have everything together I grab a bag of carrots from the fridge and I sneak out the back door I hear “This is my life, you know.” My father is a radio personality and entertainment correspondent for a local Canadian arts magazine, he spends a large percentage of the time on the road away from us, my mother is into fitness, doesn’t work and is never at home, she probably teaches water aerobics to senior women at the YMCA or some alternate act of charity to human kind, I have no idea what kind of life she could be referencing, why can’t she just see me once?