Butterflies

May 6, 2001

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I am in a southern slum where it is perfectly normal to avoid moving forward and totally acceptable to mimic the rhythms of previous generations. I am in the habit of following negative patterns of thought that must have been passed down to me through prevailing genes. There is much love to be found all around me and without this gift I would be another statistic whose story would be sold to HBO for one of those First Look: America Undercover programs. I feel I owe more than I can give but no one is expecting a return payment. How did I become so lucky? In this bed I have slept half of my life away, and now that childhood has passed me by, I lay in this same bed fighting off the pressures of regret and nostalgia. I still feel like I am sixteen awaiting and anticipating my chance to experience life’s “firsts” and hoping I have what it takes to follow through with my dreams. Thoughts of the future blow my mind, and realizing that memories really do fade, I am reluctant to leave the present time I have become so familiar with. And maybe the only reason I keep writing is because the right words have yet to display themselves. Maybe I’m not who I think I am, and maybe I really have absolutely no idea what I want. I already miss that which I have yet to witness.

Author: Lindsay Niemann

Writer | Graphic Artist