Metamorphosis

When do you suppose I'll truly grow up?

Learn to manage my money, successfully? Realize that I HAVE to go to work, pay the bills, do the laundry and actually fill the car up with gasoline? That not every stomachache indicates a day in bed with cartoons, and that not every nightmare is real. There are no monsters in the closet, and honestly, if there are, there is no one to battle them besides me, myself and I.

I swear I'm not an infant, but somedays, you'd fully believe I was fresh from the womb; kicking and screaming and flailing about. Ever red in the face, just looking for a hand to hold me. Searching for some solidarity in the sea of eyes that's watching me so terribly close.

When do I get to transform? I, too, want to be that beautiful butterfly of adulthood, maturity and responsibility. I find myself, instead, to be the one struggling catepillar, hanging upside haphazardly, with one formed wing flapping out of the cocoon...cursing wildly.

I laugh alot about it. The entire concept is nearly foreign to me...the word adult spoken in a strange language I cannot connect with. I guess I find security in my half-formed state, false as it may be. I can chalk it all up to a lingering youth, and the hard to admit fact that I still don't know everything.

Undoubtedly I'll make mistakes, destined to encounter the same problems once, twice or three times depending on my hardheadedness.

I want to grow and change and develop, but if I have to hang in the balances for awhile, I'll survive it. I surely don't want to miss a thing...