Emily Rae Robles

the paradoxymoron


There is a girl in the eternal spectrum of time who doesn’t know what she wants to be.  She would be ten years old if you could count years in eternity.  She has stringy hair and glasses and brand new braces with colored bands that she chose from the orthodontist.  Her best friends are the people she will forget in a few years; the friends she ignores will be the ones she will wish she had kept.  She spends every spare minute reading books she will remember and singing songs she will never forget.  The only professions she knows of are musicians and waitresses, but next year (if you could count years in eternity) she will want to be a writer.  She believes herself to be smart, but she lacks understanding.

In ten years (if you could count years in eternity) she becomes me.  Perhaps she always was, but my memory does not personify itself enough for me to know.  How then can I expect to see what would be the future if time were linear?

“Emily Rae,” I tell her, as we meet in the wisps of eternity, “you have music in you that you have not yet discovered.  You will spend hours of your life shut up in a practice room in order to stop loving what you haven’t even found yet.  Ten years from now, (if you could count years in eternity) you will take on more pressures than ever before.  You will love it, but then you will break, and your love will turn to headaches.  Your mind is young and flexible now, but soon it will become brittle and overloaded and will snap. You will become a mental patient and meet people whose ten-year-old-selves are not as carefree as yourself, but weighed down already by injustices you have yet to realize exist.”

“Emily Rae,” she tells me, as we wander the halls of infinity, “you don’t have a lisp anymore.”

It is, of course, the only thing she notices.

“Emily Rae,” I hear, turning to see a ghost of the future, “do not attempt to level what God has intended as hills.  Life will happen to you faster than you will realize.”

Suddenly I am the ghost, looking down at the girl who would have twenty years if you could count years in eternity.  She is learning that her her hopes may not be dreams, and her dreams may not be fears.  She feels that she is a different person, but I know she is not, for I am her and she is me.  She knows what she loves, but not the order in which she should pursue her passions.  She wants to have understanding and seeks wisdom.

“Emily Rae,” I tell her, “you are loved.”


February 5, 2011 - Posted by | ramblings, writings | , , ,

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