When I was a child as far back as I can remember, I was weird. I remember most people thought I was not right, awkward, and strange. Maybe this was only my perception of what I thought people thought of me at the time, but I had no one else to tell me any different. I wanted to share one of my strange childhood behaviors.
I remember being nine or ten-years-old, and I would pretend my body was controlled by two miniature pilots. I was some boy-sized-advanced-robot which these two adventurers explored the world in. This was a recurring fantasy of mine, especially while I was at school; sitting bored. Not only did I act out my pilots’ adventures in my head, I would also act them out aloud. I would be sitting in class and begin to whisper, oh so quietly, “We must extend the arm, we are to write on this paper his name. Begin extension process.” I’d follow the dialect with some mechanical whirring sound effects. Or, my class would be shuffling through the halls in a single-file-line to spend some time at the library, and we would have to take the stairs. Upon encountering the stairs, my pilots would go into high-alert; for my pilots, stairs were a perilous affair, requiring the utmost skill. “Stairs. Repeat: Stairs. Man your stations.”
Reliving this behavior of mine makes the experience not sound so strange, which is therapeutic in a sense. Most everything you do when you are still considered a child can somehow be written off. How many times has it been said, “He’s just a kid.” I have a lot of things covered over by this gracious forgiveness of society. Many things I am allowed to attribute to just being a kid — my actions of that time carry little value because they were executed by a young mind, with little guidance.
Anyway, what do I know? I was just a kid then.