Charlie’s Chatter

Gregor Samsa awoke one morning to find he had transformed into a monstrous vermin.

Adulthood has a way of arriving like the rising tide. First the gurgling ripples, heady with joy as they tickle the toes. Then the torpid puddle around the ankles, always there or there about, never noticed, until it so rudely ebbs away leaving nothing but sand in the toes and the memories on soaked jeans. Then the waves arriving in earnest, up around the thighs and yes, it’s a little further in that your mom or dad would approve of, but you’re growing up now aren’t you, so you laugh and stay, to feel the First Little Corruption power brought. And then before you know it, there you are, waist deep in the sea and every now and again, the ocean throws you this way or that, leaning on you like some inglorious drunk, as you struggle to stay on your feet, under its brute strength.  And then you usually trudge back to the beach, for there are some things that must not be tempted except, now that isn’t an option and all that’s left is for you to jump in and try to swim to Japan.

Growing up is the realization, at once comic and tragic, of how woefully out of place you are in what was once home.  What you once thought was home. What was yours and familiar and loved because it was so familiar – now drifts wanly like some watery streak of raw pink on a grey metamorphosis, tepid like some inadequate adjective, lingering on with the bitter aftertaste of a metaphor pushed too far. Congratulations, you have grown up. Gregor Samsa lives.