It's official
I'm growing up. I've never wanted to grow up. Peter Pan, the Toys 'R Us theme song . . . My ideal way of life. Instead, I've turned into Wendy- the child cursed to leave Never-Never Land, and grow up amidst the adults and society of a non-magical world. I had a discussion with my father today. He made a comment relating to me going out and buying something, and I tried to explain to him that seeing as I have no job and no money, comments like that only serve to make me annoyed. He does it often, too, telling me all over the place how I need to get a job, trying to drag me into his society, and that's one thing I don't want to do. I've always wanted to be anyhting but my parents- always vowed I'd do things differently, and looking back on my life I realize I'm growing up to be exactly like them. Take this evening for example. THe discussion escalated into an argument, and I realized, finally, that no resolution was to be made, because he wasn't even paying attention to what I said- he was just trying to make a point. And then I realized, even more to my horror, that that's exactly how I argue a lot of the time. I don't listen, I hear . . . and wait to speak. Reminders of Fight Club . . . When people think you're dying, they really listen, instead of just waiting for their turn to talk . . . Do I always do that? Since seeing that movie I've tried so hard to listen, to bite my tongue when I might have said something that didn't really matter to the issue. As it turns out, though, I'm just as bad as my dad. I don't know what to do. At least it's not as bad with him as it is with my grandfather- but it's so very similar . . . We're all so alike, we know just what to say to push each others buttons. Why can't we do the opposite, and use our knowledge of the other to make life easier? Probably because we're too thick headed. Stupid cometitions . . . I want to be my own person, and stay young forever, because I see that my dad is getting older, and it seems as one gets older in this society, life is more and more of a burden. I want childhood- I want summer afternoons playing in the sprinkler, and fall mornings with frost on the maple leaves- not budgets and mortgages and doctor visits. I guess the problem lies in the fact that I haven't fully given into my fate- which I feel my dad has. I still fight for my childhood, and except for brief moments, it seems like he feels that he has to hold the world on his shoulders. I don't want that, but at the same time, if I just gave in, and 'grew up,' I would at least be able to stop struggling. My dad might throw his arm around me and say, "Welcome to the grwn-up world, son," and we wouldn't argue, except on things that really matter, like stocks, and sports. Why does life have to be filled with pain after trouble after problem after death? Where is the happiness I feel must be out there? Is it just a fantasy? Are dreams just whispers of a forgotten existence, lost when we join the world of the living? I've cried twice, this month. Once, when I left Amy at North Park, to come down here to Orlando. The second was tonight, when I realized that no matter what, my father will never be able to let me be my own person, because there's too much of him inside me . . . and if I ever have a son, the same will be True, and there's no breaking free of it. This, dear friends, is but the front corner of despair, and anticipation's but half the fun.