Standing Still, My Bones Move

I broke out of jail at the age of three. Methodical, quiet. I never wanted to stop moving, to stay still. Stillness was a poison. That hasn't changed much, and explains a few things about the hazards of my personal adulthood. I scooted before I could crawl. I climbed before I could stand. There was something in me that I didn't have the time to indulge. I was determined to no longer be constrained as soon as I reached the age of consciousness - thus memory, thus will.

My parents put me to bed early, an inauspicious night when they had company, but I wasn't done having fun. The bars of my cell were boring and too close and, seeing them, it was like I woke up. That's the strange thing about remembering your first memory, living the moment over again. Three years, four years, however many, you might have wailed into the world. But were you truly alive? I achieved sentience, and I was quite done with being locked up away from the goings-on of the little world.