Young Writers Society

There are two types of people: people who drink milk, and people who drink water. There seems to be little in between.

Milk drinkers are heartier, bigger boned on occasion, and always full of life. Many times they are trying to strengthen their bones, as they attempt to mend the fissures and cracks that threaten to crush their foundation. Maybe one day they'll succeed.

Water drinkers, like my family, are weaker. They refuse to acknowledge anything strong: fear, weakness, and often love. They believe that people are whole and untethered; that the damage we accumulate is a figment of the imagination that no pieces are missing. This is a facade, so they choose to forget the past and embrace the future. However, while they are big believers in moving on, they never do, as they do not respect the importance of closure.

I like to think that I am one of the rare in between, a water drinker with the tendencies of a milk monger. I understand both types of people; I see my family fall apart, because the water is not strong enough to soothe their wounds. In contrast, I see myself shiver on my foundation, the water weakening its structure every passing day. Eroding my strength to continue.

I have discovered that the world lacks simple truths, but this is one of them: every single person is damaged. It doesn't matter if you live in the biggest mansion or the smallest hovel, we have all endured pain. That's part of my frustration you see, most of the water drinkers I know are well off people who believe money prevents sadness. As a little girl in a nice house my hurts were never acknowledged, bullying friends and mealy school lunches deemed too pathetic over the eternal cups of water. As I grew older, I realized that the clean cups of water were laced with dirty secrets, secrets that rivaled arsenic in their potency. Grandpa was sick with lung cancer. Sister cut herself at night. Mom was a closet dictator. Dad dreamed of leaving during the witching hour. The secrets will be forgotten of course, eroded as life picks us off one by one.

My secrets are far less dramatic, though my still waters lack purity.

I am afraid of everything, most shamefully of my family falling apart.

I am a milk drinker clouding the water, a swan in a line of ducks, and a girl afraid to change. A still girl in a rushing world, frozen, in a world of gusty winds and raging seas, while the moon hides behind the clouds.

So if the world is composed of two kinds of people, where do I fit? Am I destined to ignore the past? Or possibly the future? Humanity is not predisposed to good, but our choices change our interpretation. After all, the feelings speak louder than words. Behind the fair facade, nothing is whole.

So perhaps we all have our shortcomings, milk is thicker than water, and water runs through our veins. I am not a girl with cracks toppling the foundation or secrets eroding my happiness. I am just damaged. There are pieces missing. Most importantly, there is no reason to find them. After all, a crescent moon does not mourn the suns shadow. One day all of our hurts will be forgotten, and out of their ashes a third group may emerge. So, perhaps one day there will be a third group of people, people who drink all beverages, simply because they are thirsty.