The Me I'm Meant to Be

 

 

The Me I'm Meant to Be

"I'll never be that me again," claims the ground. It makes the statement in tones of white, its intent clear: the cigarette butt indicating it to the right. This despite the stains on the statement and around it, and its dubious, dirty appearance. Who knows how many people have walked over it, not seeing it or taking it for granted.

But you notice it. You stop, pointing your shoes at it–pondering it.

"Which me is it referring to?" you wonder. "Which me do I want to leave behind?"

Your mind is suddenly not responding. Your cells are running into each other, trying to come up with a solution. You try to see past the oil marks and spoiled cement spots. You feel like the message is meant for you, but you're not tuned into it.

Your feet patter away: Ka-clump, ka-clump. Your steps are dissonant yet regular, melding into the sounds around it. Ka-clump, ka-clump. If you clink loud enough you can keep your thoughts at bay.

Yet, you suddenly halt, listening. Here it comes–the the answer: 

The you that fears. The you of the past, doubting and being doubted. That's the "me" that you don't want to be ever again.

You pick up your head and look around the plaza– people folding into conglomerates, the sky dipping its ladle into those shadowy grays and uncertain browns. Quite soon without the street lights you will be straining in the penombra to make out the lumpy illusions of the world around you. But your clarity of thought cuts through all the gook of the gloaming.

And you mouth to yourself: I will never be that me again.

Photo and text: Kristen Mastromarchi