You say to me
Your brain is broken.
It's like an adult’s brain, but it doesn’t work properly.
It’s like you’re in a city you’ve never been to, you don’t have a map, you don’t know
what you’re doing, and you keep making the wrong turns.
You say listen to me.
Don’t worry.
One day you’ll be okay. Probably.
One day your brain will be just like mine
And then you’ll be OK.
But until then, you’ve got to try to be more like me.
I say to you, my brain isn’t broken.
It’s beautiful.
I’m in a city I’ve never been to, and I see bright lights, and new ideas, and fear, and
hope, and opportunity, and a thousand million roads all lit up and flashing.
I say, there are so many places to explore but you’ve forgotten that they exist,
because every day you walk with your hands in your pockets and your eyes on the
floor.
I say when I’m wild and out of control it’s because I'm finding out who I am, and if I
was a real wild animal then I’d have left by now.
I say, my brain isn’t broken.
It’s like this for a reason – I'm like this for a reason.
I’m becoming who I am.
And I’m scared.
And you’re scared.
Because who I am might not be who you want me to be, or who you are.
And I don’t know why but I don't say “it’s all going to be okay”.
There are so many things I’ve stopped saying to you.
I want to say them, but I can’t.
I pick up my plate, put it in the kitchen, and go upstairs.
