Just caged, my lovelies

“I can’t get a good read on Caitlin.” - My Kindergarten teacher

“I can’t figure you out.” - Professor I hated

“I find you fascinating.” - Teacher who found me fascinating

“I love talking to you because I can’t figure you out.” - Annoying boy I knew in my 20s that I didn’t love talking to, no offense intended

These are just the remarks I remember off the top of my head. I don’t know how I feel about this. I find the kindergarten teacher’s remark alarming.

You know what I remember about Kindergarten? Drawing a picture of a tree next to a lion. Playing with dolls. Being happy. The playground. I don’t know what’s confusing about these activities.

Recently I was in a situation where it felt like I was a flamingo caged at a zoo staring at a monkey in a cage across from me and each of us were were staring at each other like “I can’t figure out what this other creature is. Oh my god, it moved. It made a noise. What?” It was sort of hilarious. Because at the end of the days we were just caged, my lovelies.

So yeah. I didn’t understand what was going on inside this monkey (acquaintance). There seemed to be more inside the monkey that I never figured out. And I am hardly entitled to that! But I was so fond of the monkey. Awh.

I love people. I do. I want to be a kind, sincere, loving person to the extend that I can and to the extent others need. Because why the hell else am I here - let’s be serious. I sound insufferable sometimes, like I think I’m a special snowflake. I try to talk myself up sometimes because I am (at the end of most days) very hard on myself.

This is the problem of being a writer. I want everything to mean something, anything! Or to mean “something else” if the meaning falls flat. There is so much going on in my mind.

Someone once told me she has no inner monologue. I cannot fathom this. My inner monologue usually runs concurrent with my outer monologue! And the “verbal monologue” sometimes doesn’t win. I talk about myself so much here. I’m not a complete asshole, I am just my own muse.

I think in layers, everything always has to be connected to something else, I am a flurry of wondering in just one (thirty-something) girl.

That may be what these people are picking up on. I’m not insincere, it’s just that I often have 2 dialogues running. I’ll be talking to a friend about something, anything, and I’ll notice her flowers on the table, the way the sun comes in to her window, and I will connect these to other memories, associations, that spirit me

elsewhere. Sometimes I think will be useful and I will try to remember them later. Repository. Usually I can still engage in conversation.

I don’t know if this happens to other people. I never remember this NOT happening to me.

And did I have the ability to override this trait at age 5? Doubtful. Did I possibly have the glazed look of being utterly elsewhere all the time? Plausible.

I may have just solved a mystery.