Clean

I was a strange kid.

I was slow to learn to write.

Because I had so much to say and not enough words for it.

I was like a caveman perhaps, there was nothing I could do but paint figures on walls, because language had not been invented yet. 

But when I learned finally, I couldn't get enough of it.

I would write everywhere. 

On walls and floors and there were times I wished I had a giant pencil so I could write on the ceiling just before I said Au Revoir to the world.

I liked to fall asleep because in my dreams my pen never ran dry.

And I could have every colour I wished for. And the glitter would never fade.

But I had to wake up in the mornings and go to school. And like a slate dipped in water, my dreams would be wiped clean.

I was still happy though. There was a pen in my pocket, you see.

"Stay in the lines!" I can still remember my teacher screaming.

My words were like prisoners escaping from a chain gang. 

They ran away from the margins and tried to hide in the spine.

They were often not the people she was looking for.

They told tales of kings and queens when more serious matters were at hand. 

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She got angry one day and hit me on the hands.

Pink turned to red as ruler met flesh with a sharp crack. 

But I never registered the pain, because the caveman had discovered fire.

I would write on my hands, I decided.

I smiled so wide that day I like to think it gave me a permanent mark.

Right there on the left cheek, do you see? Like the slip of a pen that failed to stay in the lines.

And then it began. I would write on my hands. All the time.

It would be my purpose here till I found the real one.

I wrote stories. In a little folder my mind lay a hundred tales.

Tales that had changed the world and ended wars.

Tales that I had given birth to, and I was proud of them.

No matter how fractured they were. 

After all, these things are inherited.

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But I was growing up, you see. I had tighter lines to stick to. 

I reluctantly started waking up from this little dream I had lived.

Yawning and rubbing sleep from my eyes and living the stupid belief that five more minutes would have mattered. 

I couldn't write of kings and queens any more. 

They all passed away leaving dusty portraits that I hung in a room in the back of my mind.

The same room where I kept that folder.

It wasn't so bad. I bought a sort of castle for myself. 

I was a bit of a princess, and I was working my way up to being Queen.

I had a fine chariot too, 2.2 liters of pure V8 power.

Slowly the lines started making sense to me.

I guess there are no pencils giant enough to reach the ceiling.

And glitter does fade away in a while.

It all made sense. It made as much sense as the fairies and dragons once did.

I guess it's alright. I guess I'm at peace with myself now. 

There really isn't much that worries me. 

The bills are all on time. The food is good, and the drink is strong.

I'm wearing a nice tailored suit. Looks good on me. No slips of the hand here. And a nice watch too, though the days have gotten shorter. 

And a pen that's worth my first salary, although the only word in it's vocabulary is my signature. 

There's just one thing I don't like, though. 

One thing that makes me sleep half an hour later than I should.

My hands are always clean now.