take me back like a grandfather clock

I cling to hats—old and dusty fedoras—that help remind me of when my pop pop could remember how old I was, and wasn’t toting around books titled, “Understanding Alzheimer’s” and swallowing down pills from six separate bottles, for six separate conditions. 

I cling to images—from the archives of tumblr—that help me dream, and imagine about a life that seems impossible right now, but they also light the flame inside me that’s already burning so low, and I’m only seventeen.

I cling to lists—scribbles in my many notebooks that I eventually lose track of—because they are one of the only concrete items that I can actually cling to. From dawn to dusk, I find myself reading over these, and my self finds a little bit of comfort.

I cling, some folks try to sing, and other just deal with what they’re handed, by creating something so messy, and so different, but once it’s time to bloom, that thing becomes beautiful.

I cling because I want life to be more simple.
I want to drown in the sweetness of the first bite of a ripened apple.
The pleasure of knowing the first bite is the best, but not having to comprehend the rest if you don't want to.
A taste of life would be good, which is essentially the beauty of a film.
You get a taste of someone's life and time is swallowed up in the intricate or even subtle cinematography until an hour of screen time has lent you years of someone's life.
Taking a sip is easy, but what if you keeping drinking and it gets harder to swallow, what if you stop needing or better yet wanting that fluid that seemed so perfect until your sip became a gulp.

Any you are probably thinking, what is wrong with me at this point.

Let me explain

 Nobody told me that recovery is a whole different kind of emotion than the sadness I felt in the first place. In small doses sadness is romantic and the plight of a suffering person intrigues scripts, paintings, albums, sculptures, and literature. But I feel pity for myself, I picture the little girl that is still inside of me, in some dark room with waves of her own tears climbing up her body until she pulls the plug from the bottom of the room like a drain in a bathtub, and the process starts all over again.

But now I just would love to go back, go back and tell my younger self that you can just take one bite out an apple, you can't just take one sip of a drink, you have to finish no matter how long it takes you or how hard it is to finish.

I try to stay away from change as much as I can, but once I accept this change will I come of age?
(first draft so it's sorta bad) (I wrote this like three or four months ago)