Letter from a gifted kid

Dear world,

Stop the music. Stop talking. Stop everything because I have to find my thoughts again. I have to think again because if I can't think, I have nothing. There is nothing for me. I am not beautiful without those thoughts. I am not talented without those thoughts. I am no longer the kid that so many people believed in without those thoughts. I am the dust on the ground that someone should have kicked, someone should have trampled, someone should have spewed spit on, but decided not to because they thought one day it would rain, the sun would shine, clouds would part, and a seed would sprout forth new life from the dust. If only they urged the plant to grow, a flower would open awestricken to the sky.

Well, guess what! It rained, the sun shined, clouds parted, but all that was left was mud-

mud that can't think, mud that can't put pen to paper like it did in the fourth grade, mud with a brain that doesn't move as quick as it should or used to move, mud that can't explain the experiment it told you about as an eight year old, mud that can't decide on a path and stick to it (Millions diverged in a yellow wood), mud that is still stuck at the fork, mud trying to muddle through the mess of its mind, the trash left from years of gathering information, the torrent of short-lived passions, the debris left from the war of trying to fulfill some prescribed destiny, lost mud, sad mud. Middle school mud that promised it would never allow itself to fall into despair, but in high school fell anyway, an apologetic mud that is coming to you as humbly as it knows how begging you for a fix, begging you to stop wanting, stop expecting, stop praising just for a moment. Because right now those praises go down an empty hole. Because right now they feel like choke slams again and again on an open mat. Because right now they just feel like all of the things it could have become, but will never be because this mud doesn't win anymore. This mud can't work anymore. This mud can't study anymore. This mud can't read anymore

And all the hype makes the mud unable to breathe anymore.

Save the mud and tell it what it needs to hear; That it is not special, that it is not destined to be the only light of its lifetime, that its strife is another's strife, and that despite the world's blinders, it is not alone. That it is different, but not special because special is too much pressure, because special says you have to be a superhero or a superspy or a superwinner or at least supersmart because anything less removes the specialness. Because anything less renders you stupid, untalented or worse...not gifted. Because they will make your grades tell your worth, and if your grades drop, you are no longer gifted, no longer "that smart”, no longer special. Conversations you will never hear

Will say well, I got higher than that mud. I did better than that mud. You will be nothing.

So, don't tell me letting go is simple because we don't think the same.

Don't tell me, "It doesn't have to be perfect" while I'm still fighting for validity because in my mind, I replay the movies over and over again of the times I disappointed people. I remember the whispers, the closing eyes, the drooping arms, and the lowered voice.

I remember the look. Rewind the slow motion wave of "I thought you would be better."

And when you told me you loved me, I remember trying to decipher if I should be too smart to believe it because I should know the answer. Because my first memory is being put on a pedestal for reading, then being put down for humility, then being brought back up for thinking only to be standing now, one foot on the ground because my thoughts are gone, and I am numb because a cigarette lighter couldn't light a fire deep enough to make me believe wholly in life again. Because I am forever in dreamsleep, performing doublethink even though I can't think on the brink of an incomparable conquest; learning to be smart and stupid at the same time. Because in the grime of my mind, there may still be a seed that I just don't know how to grow. But, while I am waiting the show must go on. I must perform! Create a light and point to it, so no one notices the scars and the beaten heart, and the torn eyes looking for the start of something new-

That musical was lying because I am dying inside. Because at the end of the day, all I want to do is scream a sign in big letters saying, “World! I can’t think...anymore.” 

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