I had my alarm set for 4:45 am. I didn’t need to get up until 5:00 but I wanted the extra fifteen minutes to lie still and quietly contemplate the day ahead: Get ready for work, fight the morning rush hour, painfully pretend to be an extrovert for nine hours, fight the evening rush hour, come home, make dinner, eat, go to bed, and prepare for tomorrow’s Groundhog Day. I was 20 years old. I should have been partying into the wee hours with sex-crazed, gossipy girlfriends, or lining up fragile hearts to break heartlessly—but no, I was playing the role of responsible adult. My parents had not forced me out. Determined to be independent, I left of my own volition to vindicate my know-it-all teen years, to prove to the world—and myself—that I knew what I was doing, that “life is hard” was an exaggerated ploy fathers used to keep their baby girls under thumb. Now all I wanted was to be free, to spend my waking hours dreaming of a kinder world and creating art to express my ideas. Had it really only been two years since I was that carefree high schooler who had it all figured out? Who had the world in the palm of her hand? Oh, how my life had changed and seemingly in an instant. Rent, bills, and gas money had me in a headlock. And so quickly had I adapted to my new circumstances that I no longer recognized myself. Where did I go? I prayed each day for the opportunity to be free, to spend my waking hours dreaming of a kinder world and creating art to express my ideas. And I would use a few of those extra fifteen minutes to contemplate how to make that happen.
Posted inFlash Fiction
