Writers Jam

Just now,
while scrolling reels,
I found myself thinking;

How much have I changed?
What happened to me?

I used to click the pictures
of the sky and the cottony clouds
every minute I had a phone with me.
I used to read every day
and almost in one sitting.
I used to laugh out loud,
used to love my paintings.
I was proud of what I created,
I was proud of what I was.

Now I have a phone to myself,
and I rarely look up
and gaze at the sky.
On top of my table
is the stack of books I’ve bought
because I loved books
and still call myself a reader,
even when deep down I know
I’m not anymore.

I look at the pages, the colours, the strokes —
I surely did get better at art
but;
There’s a but,
I’m not good enough.
I used to write bullshit
and ask people to read it
without caring about my grammar and errors.
Now I don’t lift a pen to write.

Is this what they said
would happen when one becomes an adult?

I was 17
when I watched the movie The Breakfast Club,
and that one conversation
between the characters went like:

Andrew: My God, are we gonna be like our parents?
Claire: [teary] Not me…ever.
Allison: It’s unavoidable, it just happens.
Claire: What happens?
Allison: When you grow up, your heart dies…

This haunted me then,
and still does,
because I keep questioning;
has it happened to me too?

I swore to myself not to go numb.
But here I am.
Making plans to do things
but never doing them.
I keep telling myself
and everyone
that I never grew up after my 17th birthday.

But now I know that’s a lie.
I might have died that day.
But I’m still breathing,
without a heart,
for people who love me.