Straight On ‘Til Morning

“All children, except one, grow up…” Or so said J. M. Barrie, author of Peter Pan.

In many ways I think I could be the exception. It’s kind of hard to explain actually, but I’m a rather maturely immature guy as anyone who knows me will be able to vouch for.

I spent a good part of my childhood and my teenage years wanting to be grown up. I wanted to be able to make my own decisions and to do what I wanted. Little did I know the price I would have to pay for the independence I thought I longed for.

For some reason I can’t recall anyone ever telling me all that being an adult entails. Perhaps it’s because no one did, or if they did I didn’t listen. I can’t remember a single warning about the responsibilities that come with being in charge of yourself.

It pretty much all comes down to two choices; you are either responsible for yourself, or someone else is responsible for you and they control you. And after tasting both, I kind of wish there was a third option.

While growing up my imagination was my best friend. Inside my head my life went on the way I wished it could’ve in the “real” world. Every old score was settled and any offenses against me were dealt with swiftly and severely. I was no longer the one who had to stare covetously at the things that other people had that I wasn’t allowed to have or couldn’t afford. I wasn’t the outcast that I felt like.

For as long as I can remember I’ve had my own personal Neverland that has existed inside my skull. It’s the one place where I’ve always been safe and in control. Unlike “real” life, happy endings have always been plentiful there. It’s my escape from the millions of tons of shit that seems to somehow always fly my way.

While it’s nice to have such a ready escape, I have to admit that it isn’t entirely a good thing. Getting snapped back to “reality” can be harsh, and usually ends with me wishing that my “real” life could be like the one in Neverland. This, in turn, leaves me frustrated and despondent as I’m again reminded that the one will never even resemble the other.

There is one bright ray of light in the darkness of my reality though. My own (much better) version of Wendy. One person I can spill everything to. One person that I can share myself with. One person who can understand me (and amazingly still likes me afterwards). One person who can see something good inside me despite all the black clouds that I see when facing a mirror. One person that I can take care of and who can take care of me.

Some people say that you stop maturing when you start doing drugs, which may account for me having the maturity of a teenager. It’s not something I’ve ever really tried to be like, not that I remember anyhow. It’s just how I am.

I was supposed to be in bed a couple hours ago though, so perhaps I need to crawl into my ship made of pillows and sheets. I’ll close my eyes and soak up the darkness that covers me as I head towards the second star from the right and sail straight on ‘til morning.

Perhaps I’ll find a pleasant place to spend the night.

*
“How does fever burn inside you?
Must I have a will to fight?
Do these questions have an answer?
Where’s the truth and what’s the cost?
All my problems form a puzzle
All my pieces have been lost
*
Why must things be this way?
And I can stop any time I want
And I can quit any time I want
And I can stop any time I want
Loving you might even kill me.”
*
Cold