Cheese
Glossy and frozen, my deflated smile stares back at me from an awkward pre-eighth grade dance picture propped haphazardly on my desk. Looking at the picture brings back a wave of nostalgia, as well as a keen appreciation of the time between now and then.
To anyone else the photo represents time had and the hilarity in the awkwardness of youth, but for some reason the joke in the photo has long since faded. My smile sits on my face heavily, without anything but the physical mechanism behind it to keep it there, my eyes lacking the warmth that real happiness exudes. One hand hangs heavily while the other clutches onto its brother for support, and only the wind provides mannequin-like life to my expressions.
I know the people around me. I know their stories, but I barely know them anymore.
I remember how I felt that day. It stands out in the history of my life because I never remember feeling so unhappy for such a long period of time. I thought I hid it well. I thought that time had helped me to soften the impact of that experience. The photo tells another story.
I think I underestimated the capacity of my heart to remember things that time pretends to forget.
The picture will stay here until I move out in the fall. Its a bleak reminder of what I have overcome, and a sound motivator to chug readily through the last bit of senior year.
I got to get out of here.