By Caroline Crossland, TIWP Student
Potential is the blossoming of the bubblegum pink rose. Its light feathers flare out, but only to the smallest increments, like the little dainty patterns in a baby’s maple green eyes. The clock of my body ticks to the gems immersed in seventeen years of age, but those thick strings of the high teens are ultimately connected to the doe lace heart of the newborn child. Whether they like it or not.
My mind everyday first starts as a baby, and is birthed from mother earth’s lightly smoothed rocks. The little brain only tastes like grey. The thick core of the cherry blossom tongue lightly feels the creamy texture of the vanilla pudding, that’s all. The pearly sweet tapioca balls first sink with their burdened tails of nothingness to the bottom. The strong, penetrative grip of the spoon carries them to the top, waiting to be seen, waiting to be eaten.
The slender fingertips of my fair baby hands sway beneath the water, looking with the docility of an iridescent jellyfish, until when they feel and see the light flurries on their black licorice top hats. The glistening droplets of snow, coming from the birth and the death of these little baby fingers, the box and the horizon, the clock tied to the forever maze of my body: Queen Elsa’s boisterous product. The sparkly silver ice: potential’s middle name, potential’s arch nemesis, potential’s mother, potential’s murder.
Then the curious mouth is at rest, studying the costumes of the round clementine balls of tapioca cradled inside the strong arms of the silver spoon. The eyes stare with fear, amazement, but most importantly, they question. The eyes then write their daily note to time, asking what to do next. They beg, they plead, they pawn for an answer from the clock, the little ticks and tocks spell out the same answer every time: you.
My light hands discover the frosty barrier keeping all of my thoughts at the degree of zero. The degree of normality, the degree of casual nature. The thoughts are submerged, they are excluded from my maze. The light abundances poke at the ice’s round black door, the energy of exploration then seeps into their generic red blood giving them more energy, confidence, faith, but most importantly: authenticity.
The mouth with the dainty curiosity of a teddy bear, then opens to taste the welcoming tapioca pearls cushioned by the creamy velvet vanilla pudding.
My innocent fingertips push through Elsa’s strong barrier of genericness, how the typical mind thinks, sees, believes, connects. The box of constants begins to crack, little by little, piece by piece.
Age by age.
The little colorful balls suddenly pop and burst with flavor within the mouth. A flavor that no one has ever tasted before but the thick tongue loves and embraces automatically.The flavor so surprising and glorious that the ruby beating heart gets coated in this wondrous color with designs so incredibly detailed and deep: each and every shape could write their own story and purpose longer than any chapter book.
My hands break through the frosty barrier into the wondrous air, so clean, so excited, so new. The fingertips are on Aladdin’s magical carpet, flying in a whole new world with potential’s confident beat to the satin drums. My hands finally open up their mouths that were once sealed with the dullness and trends of the Hershey chocolate, and finally breathe new thoughts with the perplexity of a thousand galaxies. They see the iridescent strings and pathways to the imaginative ideas that keep on dancing with their infinite sapphires, traveling to no destination, yet present in all of them. The place where my light fingertips can touch one domino as the little white block falls, touching the next one in line. This results in all of the other dominoes touching and falling one after the other at an infinite rate, while each one carries and connects a new idea inspired by the previous domino to the next polka dot square. But little do these dominoes know that they all started to lather and fall on top of each other like caramel taffy from just one thought, one idea, one imagination. This is a place where there are more colors than the human eye can see, a place where the Disney princesses twirl with velvet dresses in their little carriages traveling everywhere connecting multiple different ideas into Charlotte’s beautiful Web, a place of infinite possibilities, a place where every box is shattered into pieces, a place where potential stands high with its violet cape and golden crown, a place of utter escape, but most importantly: my authentic maze.
For this descriptive, luscious, deep, loving, iridescent, creative, and connective universe might be filled with a million imaginations, but they all only come from one dream
And I’m finally 17.