Down The Yellow Brick Road

My name is not Dorothy, but I am trying to find my way back to Kansas.



You know, Kansas. The place where I feel best about myself?

Maybe you don't know, but take it from someone who yearns for that place. I wanna go back to those days. If I could, I would take all my friends to see the good me. The me that still believed in invincibility. The me that didn't know that for some people, Santa was a creepy, forty year old that wore a wife beater and got stoned every other day. I want them to see the boy who didn't understand the concept of pain and sadness. The boy who cried because he saw his dad crying, but still didn't understand why. The boy who would laugh and smile all day for no reason other than why not.

I want to show my family and my friends and my peers all that I once was. Show them what the real world can do to someone who has absolutely no problem with life.

Let me have that frame of mind back. At least for a day.
Let me believe in invincibility.
The me who believed Santa came for EVERYONE.
The me that didn't know my dad was crying about my Grandpa losing his war with cancer.
The me who still laughed and smiled as if the world was perfect.

But caskets and tears are concrete.
And so are bricks.
And sometimes you can't follow a yellow brick road to a blissful state.

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