When time flys, It soars, Taking to the air like greedy birds of prey.

Gone are childhood playthings, Plastic relics of imagination and glee, Long grown cold from disuse.

Dreams and aspirations are too left behind, Crammed into metal cabinets, And slipped into borrowed books.

How tolerable would time be, If growing old didn’t mean losing the very things, That made us feel alive.

As the teacher continued with the lesson, I am left behind in my memories. When such an important person disappears from your life, this feeling of being stuck in memories permeates through everything you do. Mama died a week ago, and since then I have found myself thinking of little else but her. As the world moves around me, my mind wanders and conversations become a dull drone in the background of thoughts of remembrance.

I new Mama as the endlessly loving and kind old lady that she had been as long as I had known her. But sat in class surveying the variety of characters in the room, I imagine her life before my family, when she was in school. Was she the girl sitting at the back, absentmindedly doodling in her notepad? Or had she been up the front intently taking notes, answering every question with a hand instantly jumping into the air? At lunch times was she stood in the playground surrounded by a gaggle of friends or was she in a secluded corridor with my grandad? They had met in primary school and had been best friends throughout: best friends for the rest of their lives.

I am woken from my thoughts by the lunchtime bell ringing and I re-enter the room to the teacher wrapping up the lesson (I couldn’t even tell you what it had been about). I leave the classroom pulled along by the river of kids spilling into the hallway. I observe the happy chaos around me as I move through the school. A group of girls sitting in a circle excitedly catching each other up on their weekends. A group of boys playfully throwing bits of sandwich at each other outside the window while two friends sit quietly chatting on a bench to the side. In between each of them runs a constant flow of students eager to begin their break.

As I enter the cafeteria I am surrounded by cheerful students. All of their faces seem absent of worry or sadness. I Imagine my grandma as one of these students, with her whole life ahead of her. A life full of friendship, love and what would become an incredible family.

I only knew Mama in the last 12 years of her life. But she had a treasure trove of memories from a full and vibrant life. The part I experienced had just been the final chapter. A chapter that I am thankful to be a part of. My sadness slowly drains from me as I realise the my grandmas story had been a long and happy one. As I reach my friends gathered in the cafeteria I stop dwelling on my grandmas story and rejoin my own.

Mind broken against the wall Only the brave will face the fall Sad faces wander past Ones hoping it will be her last Schools over soon Her headphones blasting out a tune Lockers swinging everywhere Teachers pretending that they care She finally gets home Where she’s even more alone A week later she took her life Gave in to all her strife The coffin looks so small Only the brave survive the fall

I don’t understand people. They always strive to discover what is different, yet when they find something new they are always afraid of it.

I’ve tried making friends but it’s proven to be very difficult lately, mostly due to my “habits” that I sometimes express at the wrong times but I assure you I don’t do them on purpose, I promise. You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this, well here’s the story.

I’ve had the same locker since school started. Now the locker in itself works completely fine and is an ordinary locker however some people that I have previously attempted to befriend seemed concerned when they saw what was in it. “What the hell?!” A girl named Sandra expressed. “Are you a fucking creep?!” My most recent friend Craig exclaimed quite violently to my face, oh and yes people in the school have grown quite distant from me over time but I just don’t understand why.

“It doesn’t matter what I like!” I tell myself almost every time I twist the mechanical lock around. Even though I’m a normal teenage boy I still don’t get the recognition I deserve for being smart, funny and honest. How many boys my age are like that but no, just because I collect certain items I’m now the “school creep.” It’s confusing and slightly unfair if you ask me.

Take sports for example, if you like tennis then wouldn’t you have tennis balls in your locker? And what about art? If you like art then it would be more than okay to have paint brushes in your locker, I think. So if someone where to like the articulate designs of baby dolls then it would be normal to have them close by. It’s my passion to hold onto these items seeing as they are beautifully breathtaking in every way. Yes they may take up a lot of room but its worth every hassle.

When I find these new dolls they ignite this overwhelming feeling to drop to my knees and question whether I deserve such a spectacular object and it’s a feeling I adore. I would give up anything and anyone to truly seek out the perfect image. Dolls show us the best of humanity and it’s something we should all cherish so I don’t understand why and how a someone or anyone could hate that. When I’m holding onto one of the many alluring pieces of art I no longer feel alone, so it must mean it’s right for me.

Some like my therapist may label me a broken boy who has no grip on reality but I know what I want. I’m able to search for something new and not get scared when I don’t understand what I’ve found, instead I embrace it and from now on that’s what I’m going to make people do. Embrace change. And more over embrace me.