"To tell you the truth,

The teacher lied when she told you you were special,"

I whispered to myself, one humid Saturday night.

Mosquitoes flickered like feverish fairies in the too-yellow light

as I listened to the soft acoustic that always provokes overridden feelings and groundless affections.

"Ever since kindergarten,"

I sighed.

My thumb twitched, and I looked to the blank and broken computer screen.

The box of conversation was switched on and flashing.

Wut's up?

I sat up in the disjointed chair, knees creaking, to produce the expected response.

not much. U?

The soft acoustic was a scream as the letters clicked away; out of control and beyond the reach of common sense and good judgment.

I sat back again and closed my eyes, to shut out my thoughts. But the cynicism came, anyways. (never mind that I allowed it)

Special?

And what of millions of others, who were also special? And of those who had died who were still, apparently, special. And of the babies unborn yet to be special.

I chuckled.

Being a cynic is fun, I thought.

It never occurred to me that my kindergarten teacher had thought the same.

Only that she was a liar.


not really sure what this came from.