I wasn't published for any Shakespearean criticism this year. But, I did stand up on my soap-box about his legacy.
I also stood on my soap-box about feminism, education in America, the book I wrote that doesn't feel finished, my height, and a number of things in between. Except soap, ironically.
I stood on my soap box for so long that the topics I wanted to banter on, no longer were in fashion. Similar to my three year old brown knee-high boots paired with long white socks pulled sky high; meant to keep my legs warm when a skirt was selected over the more obvious choice of pants.
There’s a platform on my soap-box for that as well - "I'll wear what I want when I want" from behind chattering teeth and chapped lips, proving that I've got autonomy.
Autonomy isn't screamed from a soap-box, though. It's given the benefit of the doubt by judgmental eyes that say, "oh, you finally have autonomy and that's what you want to do with it?"
What's it to you if that's what I want to do with it? The world has made us hard and emotionless, not autonomous.
"Your soap-box is lackin' soap" an old man mentioned between Vietnam stories told in the two-by-four waiting room.
The noble causes the world needs to fight for are no match for the lifetime his tired eyes had seen.
So, along with my boots, less important topics got pushed to the back of the closet to make room for some seasonal items: like depression, politics, self-awareness and other self-deprecating jokes that will be packed up neatly to travel again soon.
My bag of jokes makes an appearance at the soap-box banter, but nothing seems funny today. Isolation can really leave you in a tough crowd.
"Not as tough a crowd as Vietnam," bringing me back to reality with one simple fact.
I thought I was here to have my oil changed, not my life. But continue.....