Night Changes. One Direction

 do you remember in second grade when you thought it was cool to call your best mate and ask
"hey can you play today?"
 like actually play? with barbies and action figures and legos and american girl dolls?
 my best friend and i rigged a rope swing that hung from a skyscraper willow in her backyard. and we did the daring deed of jumping off a play house. onto the swing. yeah it was scary. and yeah we calloused our hands. and bruised our butts.

or remember when you went to P.E. in fourth grade and you saw the squatty square seats with wheels on the rack in the corner? and as you bolted towards them you shouted 
I CALL THE BLUE ONE! NO ONE GETS MINE!
and you thought your little scooter was just the best because of the color.

i grew up in a blue house. and it was the ultimate best thing of my childhood. there were huge trees everywhere in our yard. leaves were the grass. i remember our first trampoline. we bounced on it for hours, me and her. and when it was her birthday we had a scavenger hunt to find her bicycle hidden behind the shed. 

my first hamster was buried at that blue house. or so i thought. a few months ago my mom told me they actually threw the dead life and the box in the trash. the ground was too solid to dig into.

or thats what they told me anyway

psh

 there goes my childhood. right out the window. 

ever since the blue house things have changed.
she cares about her makeup where she used to care about the color of her personality.
she cares about her chirp instead of her voice.
she listens to others voices instead of her own. why?
because she's lost her creativity. and shes searching for it. like an ap calculus student searching for their graphing calculator. 
because when creativity is lost so is our ability to not care.

i loved not caring.
when you could hear someone whisper and your heart wouldn't race.
and your eyes wouldn't shift. they'd stare straight ahead. like a train on a track- forced ahead.
when you'd hear that name and your wall wouldn't lose a brick.
or your filing cabinet wouldn't open the exact drawer with the manila folder, shoved in the back, that holds their profile picture. their address. your secrets. or your midnight memories.

i guess i just need to figure my heart out.
and find that stupid graphing calculator.