I think I just met the happiest person in the world!” I remember exclaiming to myself, as a child I understood something of the great discovery I had made and how it must be met with controlled expressions, submissive, hiding feelings. But, as I child I didn’t ponder before I reacted and so I did away with submission after all hindsight had not been explored in my 4’11 prepubescent mind. I ran into my room and exclaimed it to myself proudly, jumping up and down with my shoes still on.

Truly a discovery for the ages, and it completed my book. See for the whole of the summer of 2010 I dedicated myself to my self-made book. ‘In the world’ a book of searching, and its aim: to find all those who could be finished off with that sentence, according to my practical and fair guidelines in my use of observation. And so, I carefully wrote down a single name and a double-barrelled surname making sure to mindfully dictate to myself through carefully sounding it out. You see Mum had given me an old binder that she didn’t use anymore but she only allowed me to take a handful of paper from the printer to fill it. She threatened punishment if I took any more, she foreknew my need for the perfectly written title in my purple sparkly gel pen which often very sporadically would stop working.

when there was clearly ink still inside!

As I wrote in my best cursive the same one that got me an hour of writing with Mrs Tether’s fancy fountain pen, the same pen mum said no to in the store because it was too expensive, yes in that cursive my words would stop short of their final form the ‘l’ in ‘world’ was now written in invisible ink with just its indent on the page as evidence. So, in a fit of frustration I would ball up my paper tightly my face would mirror its scrunched-up form in my fist even going as far as to rip it to shreds for extra measure, this happened frequently enough that a once bountiful load was now 6 measly sheets of paper. To which I carefully pierced using the binder’s rings concealing it inside and hiding any evidence of my anger under my pillow. Often, I would take the binder and with my back straightened and it under my arm I would pose observing myself in any profession where I was a ‘big girl’, observing what I became in my imagination was fun, I really was everything and everyone.

I peered at the name written before me my face engulfing the whole page, like I almost wanted to find any secrets it held, resisting the urge to caress the letters with my fingers for fear of the gel smudging, I pulled back now the binder lay flat on the floor of my room in my eyeline to which I smiled staring at a secret no one else could have, and no one else could know because I had it. I considered blowing on it periodically to make the wait go faster but my sense of accomplishment held fast to me and I soon realised there was no rush.

How amazing that all of them lived on my street! Could I tell the news? Would they pay me? Imagine if they gave me £100 then I could buy anything! I’d be a big girl and have lots of money like Mum and Dad.

Dry, I finally flicked to the first person simultaneously putting my hand over the name as to not spoil the reveal, everything was final and I could unmask them now, they would be discovered by me again but with fresh eyes, final eyes because they were now complete. I swipe my hand away but then squeeze my eyes shut.

Not ready.

Why does my body do things before my mind is prepared!

I begin to open my eyes trying to delay the process, but it results in my eyelids fluttering uncontrollably as I pretend to not see, legibility becomes illegible as my eyelashes cover a portion of the words moving like a propeller to an engine, I work hard to delay the moment, I want to be in the dark for a second longer but I want to see, finally I open my eyes and I see:..

Nothing.

Because this is where that memory ends, as an adult now I made a more discovery I didn’t make before; about me in the world. In the world I take handfuls of emotions they are not my own, but allocated to me, but there’s no fight in me, I’m an adult now, not a child.

Statement or reminder?

The people I gave my summer to in 2010 have been stolen away into an abyss of my own making, in the world I found my body continued to do things before my mind was able and ready. I grew, I transformed, I morphed and moulded and I don’t know. Now I forget too, now when my binder is under my arm I don’t pose, my chest puffed with air, I exhale. I release nothing because air is nothing and, in this world, nothing holds fast to me anymore, even my own breath willingly longs to escape me so I exhale frequently I give in. I decided that was a decision I was going to make.

2010 is still with me I suppose if I walked into that year, that summer I could inhale and relieve my body to her, to me of 2010, I’d be her exoskeleton.

a piece not a part, parts are whole.

  I would in each area of her, and I wouldn’t follow her around like something unfamiliar, I wouldn’t have to watch and imagine. My mum’s binder, printer paper, purple sparkly gel pen, and ‘in the world’ I discovered I arrived too soon,

 and I wonder must I be here?