It's different, but it's the same. I'm different, but I'm the same. The same little girl lost with messy hair and secrets. The same willful child who demands of others that the madness stop to no avail. The same little girl who feels both responsible and innocent.
Here I am again. Frozen in a still on this merry go round that seems to have no exit. But each turn has given me something more. A little more wisdom. A little more skill. A few more tools. A little more constructive damage and destructive strength. I'm dizzy and tired and this child's game stopped being fun a long time ago.
But it is all necessary. I have to believe that. Each turn has its purpose. Each time I'm thrown headfirst into the ground below, I recover a little slower yet a little bolder. Somehow, the broken parts heal more elastic each time. Somehow, it teaches me something useful to me or others. Somehow, it always changes me for the better. And somehow, I always end up back on the merry go round even when I know I shouldn't.
The pinball keeps pinging around. The merry go round keeps spinning. Here I am again. All rage and dejection and defeat and vigor. Here I am again taking taste tests of freedom, but not quite embracing it yet. Here I am again, knowing how the story ends, but surviving inside it first. The protagonist and antagonist both for and against myself. The other side of the climax, hurling toward the inevitable resolution.
Again and again and again and again and again. I want it to stop because it's making everyone sick. It won't. It doesn't. It never does. I get back on without knowing or wanting to. Again and again and again.
So here I am. Frozen. Dizzy. Unable to move. Catapulting toward the ground. Headfirst. Again.
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