Congratulations! That long awaited bundle of joy stirred within for nine glorious months has just been placed in your arms. The world stops spinning as every detail is explored. Those beautiful eyes will freeze hearts. Those tiny hands reflexively grip around Momma’s finger. The days of parenthood are here.

Welcome sleepless nights, frazzled nerves and the knowledge that the world revolves around the cry of that innocent little being. It is a vicious cycle of eating, changing dirty diapers, and sleeping. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. It is dirty work, but somebody has to do it, and that somebody is hopefully a loving caregiver.

That is the perfect world of how a baby enters the world. Nothing else matters except that innocent little life and how it must be protected, then shaped into a productive member of society. That cherub rolls, scoots, cruises, toddles, then walks. As time goes by that individual owns his own wings, steps into the big world and flies. What happens when something goes amiss?

What if the loving parent fails at her job? Loving arms are instead cold, calculating, manipulative, controlling, abusive. The spirit is crushed, caged, and the dirt is insurmountable in this prison. Life is snuffed out.

Loneliness replaces joy and a shell of a person aimlessly wanders through life. Life sucks and nothing is guaranteed. Gotta maintain normalcy and go and make money.

Twenty One Pilots, knows how it is supposed to be:
“Wish we could turn back time, to the good ol’ days,
When our momma sang us to sleep but now we’re stressed out.”

Out? Yes, out! I want OUT, OUT, OUT!

I shake my head for clarity, but that echo won’t stop ringing in my ears. Life has been frigid, frozen in a poison of who you force me to be. I sit in the cell in this ice castle prison trying to remember, “Who am I?” Frostbite sets in, my body slows. I hate being your mouthpiece. What you want chills my soul. Must. Get. Warm.

I stop caring what you think so that I can grow. The sun peeks from behind the clouds and ice cracks under its heat. First steps outside are treacherous, and worth the risk. The warmth tingles my fingers as they begin to wriggle. The glow is on my face and I pursue it.

Back to Twenty One Pilots:
“My name’s ‘Blurryface’ and I care what you think.”

Put yourself in place of “I.” I used to care what you think, but not anymore. It is time to be who you were meant to be.