There are no adults here.
There’s a moment of hesitation before I write. A small percentage of the time it’s so brief it’s almost as if it never happened at all. All of my best writing happens then.
It’s not the censor, although he tags along for the ride. It’s a part of the adult I am, because being an adult is an idea. It’s not real life. I never once thought, as a child, “I am a child.” I was one, but that’s incidental. I was me.
I had a dream last night I was in a troupe of actors (Why did I know that wasn’t troop?). I haven’t slept well in days because of dreams like this.
I don’t dream like this anymore, or, I’m not supposed to. Maybe my narcolepsy meds are finally running out of steam. I knew I didn’t belong there, but somehow also recognized the actors around me as, I want to say kin. One of them had a slip of paper with scribblings all over it, underlined was “Matthew will teach us…”
There’s confusion on the last word. I thought he said ‘will’ and that’s when I looked at the paper. I couldn’t teach that. I’ve had my moments, but I could teach a cooking class before demonstrating willpower. His handwriting was so bad I thought it could say ‘write,’ but I couldn’t teach that either. I don’t know how to write, in some universal sense, I know just enough to be myself.
And that’s only enough those times without hesitation.