Deprived in you.

There have been famous writers, who have tried to address the peaceful moments between sleep and your conscience mind. But this is me, wanting to address how I see  peaceful moments between sleep and everything else.

It's a mother's hand running through a  tangled dirt-curled hair, of a child. It's the ever-so-desired pat on the child's head, from her father; declaring a good girl, upon the child's soul. It's the cold spring mornings, running out to the back yard for peaches; only to be eaten that very morning, with milk and sugar. It's the ball playing, by the light of the street lamps, as summer's heat passes the ball between neighborhood children with the knowledge taped to their shadows that when the darkness come, their vulnerable and naive childhood magic will never be repeated, nor remembered; but only stored in the waking moments of sleep. It's the attempt to run away but only ending up at the library because it's the farthest place the child can carry the strapped knowledge of how to return home; supported by their bike. It's the shopping that the all-so-grown-up-local grocery store to buy ice cream and smoothies. It's the reconsidering of childhood greed and going to junior high and high school. It’s the sitting against the cold wall, listening to that cold music unaware of how cold their hands and feet are becoming; drinking in the fumbled oblivion that their souls are really the ones who are catching the cold. It's the class, the friends, the money, the kissing, all strung together and hung by the tips of their hair. Always pretending to be unaware of their self-conscious show-and-tell displays. It's the cutting of childhood hair and speaking to adults about payment. It's the standing behind counters, wearing those sticky hats and serving those sticky people. It’s the preview into their future; standing behind counters preparing meal after meal, chopping, chopping, chopping, and the hiding behind counters, crying, crying; because of selfish childhood greed. It's a mother running her hands through her child's dirt-curled hair, and the titled pat of a father, the "good girl." It's the ball playing, the peaches and milk, the coldness and chopping all pressed together into a series of images, rightfully titled as life.

So, Darling, next time you wake from a nightmare, covered in nervousness and dipped in sweat; know that your soul may still have that high school cold, while you and it watch with closed, fevered eyes, as life passes you both by; all complied and stored in to your thin-air-cabinet called sleep.

Or that your mother may have forgotten your milk and sugar.

Darinling, with love and affection
-The universe, and a 16 yeard old girl, describing it.

-sarah

xxoxoo