The escalator of growing up // Ο ανελκυστήρας προς την ενηλικίωση: ένα ποίημα

Sometimes,
I wake up with the sun

hurting my eyes.

Other times I wake up
and grey clouds confuse me
as they softly tuck in both the sun and me

over, and over

and over again.

When I do wake up,
I go to the kitchen 

and pour myself
a glass of reality.

Then,
 I help myself with a cup of routine.
Routine is good.
It makes it easier for us to form a schedule
be productive -
{and at the end of the day
feel a sense of content

at the thought of us beating sloth
for one more day.}
Determined as I might be,
I take a shower, wash the previous day off my body.
because no matter the routine,
-as I keep convincing myself-
each day is always a little different.

Then I put some confidence I just bought on my face
-did you know you can wear money on your bare skin?-.
An artist is not allowed any imperfections.
-How can your art be perfect otherwise?-

After half an hour I feel my gut vibrating.
Is this supposed to happen?
"You are what you eat", they say on the screen.
Also never skip breakfast, or you might get fat.
Fat is never good.
So I had some crunchy To-Do's.
"I will have checked them off my stomach until noon" I think.
Seems pretty fair, so far. It's still morning, anyway.
They say in the morning you can eat anything you want.

I head up to school, and I get hungry again.
"You're such a pig" my model brain tells me. "You just can't be hungry again!"
I put up with it, so I just binge on some low-fat overthinking on the way.

What's so wrong with pigs, anyway?
I also get a pack of nails to bite, and a warm drink of defense.
Former calms my nerves, while the latter's a daily need. Right?
I mean, I'm typically adult now.
And adults love needs. 

Sometimes I wonder whether I should act like I'm 22
or simply separated in two 11-year old kids who keep fighting with each other,
one aspiring to grow into an irresistible, fierce and independent woman,
and the other one just yearning to continue being a true, naive and innocent little girl.

Suddenly, I snap out of it, and try to pay attention to the lecture. 

I take another generous sip of defense, while thouroughly biting on my third nail.

I really wanted this to be a short, minimal poem, but really, this isn't about what I want.
More like a taste of growing up. Because we think so little of our future, deeply wishing it will be as simple as can be, as pretty and full of happy memories. It can always be that way. But it doesn't mean it's not going to be full of other things, too. Such as self-loathing, lack of concentration, lack of confidence, of sleep, of companionship.

I wish my childish self was ready for this.
I wish they would have warned me.
But who is 'they' and was there even a 'they' for them at all?

I get out of class and instantly get my daydream supplement.
'Everything's going to be okay', I repeat.

One of these days, I think, I'll be happy,
I will live an adult-like day of my childhood,

and my heart will stop in the middle of a -.