21 and wise

I used to refer to myself as an artist, until I stopped drawing. Within the last two years I’ve taken up writing instead, but I can’t seem to call myself a writer either. If I wanted to, then I’d have to write more compelling things, or just more in general. Lately, I’ve been writing so much that I’ve seem to have forgotten how to be an artist. My fingers don’t react the same as they used to when I place them on a page. They confuse shapes with letters and have fallen into the habit of stringing together words and feelings associated with my innermost thoughts. Mostly I write things that can not be shared, because when they are the received response is “how are you 21 and wise?” and I’m reminded that the mask I wear everyday must’ve been expensive. 

When she was 3, my sister would throw tantrums when it was time to leave mom and welcome a day of school. A true middle child luxury is to be pried off your mother as part of your daily routine. As the eldest, you don’t get the gift of making the same scene over a situation, so I was never the loudest, never the problem, never emotional, and never honest. As the eldest you are the example and being less than 2 years older than my sister, my mom often used me as such. “Look at Zoey,” my mom gestured “she’s not crying”. To which I interjected with my pre-mature 5-year-old adolescent wisdom: “I am crying- I just keep it on the inside”.