An Attempt to Tip the Scales

Career. Professionalism. Propriety. Financial security. Respectability. Success? Relative.

My brother wants to be a lawyer. A prosecutor. He is more than smart enough and well on his way. It’ll happen; I know it will. Ten years from how he’ll be passionately prosecuting a human-trafficking case of Supreme Court levels. He’ll pace slowly back and forth before a jury or judge, ask them questions they already know the answer to, just to make his point.

He’ll wear suits all the time and keep his embossed business cards in an engraved brass case. He’ll hand them out to wealthy clients, but there’s a waiting list so until it’s their turn he’ll have someone else deal with them; maybe a pretty blond secretary who tries and fails to get his attention by showing too much cleavage, or an intelligent but nervous intern who tries and fails to get his attention by quoting famous dead men.

They fail to get my brother’s attention because he is thinking about his cases, and when he isn’t, he is thinking about his wife and children to whom he goes home every evening.

I am fairly certain that this is his future. His success. I’ve known it for years; since we were children. Years ago, my mom mentioned that Evan would make a good lawyer. At that moment I knew with strangely strong certainty what lay ahead for him.
Even when he was an English major, even when he considered medical school. I knew it would be law. And I know he will be good at it. I know he will be successful. Check back with me in ten years; I’ll be right. You’ll see.

I am not so certain about my own future. I have gone far, far from any childhood inklings of a niche.

My very first aspiration was to be a pony, but the horrid process of growing up rendered even that unattractive; gave me the maturity to realize that ponies live outside in all weather, eat grass, and are sometimes abused and neglected.

I don’t want to be a pony anymore.

So I’m lost. My visions of success are so varied and so many doors have closed that I’m not sure what is even safe to dream anymore.
I have one—a dream, that is--one so unrealistic I know it is dangerous to think about. I know it will only send me after ghosts and I will catch those ghosts because I am stubborn but when I do, I’ll fall through their evanescence and land rock-bottom. I know it’ll bruise.

But tonight I am too tired for caution; too tired to suppress all thought of the future I’d wish for if there was anything trustworthy to wish on.

An apartment that allows dogs, in Chicago or maybe Portland. An art gallery where I spend most of my free time. Not my own gallery--I'll be too busy with my position at the FBI as a Criminal Investigative Analyst--but my art will be there, pieces of myself hung up on the walls, and in some dim-lit room I'll play my songs, though no one will know they're mine. A few independent albums that are loved by the bohemian underground, but my face never shows up on any kind of screen.

Mission work in South Africa; maybe some with children in Uganda or Kenya. I'll document with camera and pen between adventures that cause me to forget myself completely.
Night falls but we don’t make a fire. Deep in the balmy jungle, we just unroll our blankets and curl up under a makeshift tent. The calls of howler monkeys, the panting of some cunning hunter in the dark, the drip drip drip of the tropics and the air thrums with some morbidly eloquent magic so intense I can feel it vibrating against my skin. Goosebumps rise everywhere and I breathe deep to calm the erratic spasms of my heart as it pounds with the night—not afraid but trembling with life and exhilaration fueled by danger and mystery and beauty. Maybe a little afraid. But the fear is like a drug when combined with the thaumaturgic, nearly sacred rite of what it is to spend a night in the bush.

And I'll chase the animals, for a week or two, when my work with the children is done for the year. I will have special photography permission from Kruger National Game Reserve and they’ll send a bush-guide out with me. By this time, though, I’ll have had plenty of bush experience and won’t really need him, so I’ll just make him carry my tripod.
I’ll chase the wild animals. I’ll stalk elephants and hunt lions, and when I hear the bloodcurdling snarl of a leopard on the kopje my heart will leap—but from excitement, not fear. I would risk much for a dynamic close-shot of this scathingly beautiful monster, baring her huge fangs and funneling all of her fury directly at me through green eyes so intense I can feel their burn, scalding and far more penetrating than the glare of the African sun. The glare that no longer sends me to bed for days, cause by then maybe, in this dream world, I'll have had a miraculous remission of my disease.

Yes, these dreams are dangerous to think about. And they’re on my mind too much lately, so much I can’t tell if I’m living in a past I can’t get back or a future that doesn’t exist.

Something else has been happening to me lately, or maybe it’s already happened and I’m just now noticing it. My brain is rusty—the wheels catch on each other as they turn and I think something is seriously wrong with the connection to my tongue. I know what I want to say. Give me a pen and paper, give me a keyboard and I’ll say it. It’ll be in purple prose and metaphor; run-on sentences and grammar purposely skewed in attempt at creative style, but I’ll say it and you’ll probably understand, mostly.

I can’t talk anymore, though. I say things but they are simply-spoken; there are no synonyms in my mind and the words I do speak never reach anyone. They get lost, blown back by the wind; dangling from my earrings or something so that I hear their jingle and to me the rhythm makes sense enough to dance to, but I stay still cause no one else knows what I mean. Every other beat they hear, maybe, and some extra pauses; mistake-notes. I sound incompetent; I sound awkward and it makes me want to end every conversation by begging whomever to believe that I really am not as ignorant as I seem.

Yes, there’s something broken in my brain. And it makes me wonder if I’ll ever be anything more than a dip in and back out of anyone’s life. The character-part to your hero.
I wouldn’t mind it, I suppose, remaining the character-part. The only time I was successful as an actress in was in a character role; one that didn’t really matter but the audience remembered her.

And that’s really what I want, I guess—to be remembered.
Ultimately what else is there to want, when you consider the alternative? Forgotten. You meet people, go in and out of their lives like they do yours, and it goes on until you die and if they don’t really remember you then what’s the point?

I’m fairly certain of some who will remember me. I’m also fairly certain of some who will forget.
Some who have already forgotten. Given up on me and I don’t blame them cause I have a fair amount of preoccupation and I’m so tired that I just don’t have the strength in me to be memorable.
To be particularly funny or intelligent or a good friend-—to attempt the regaining of qualities I once had. Too complicated, too messy—-so I understand the forgetting.

I want to wear a sign. One that says, 'You should've known me Before--I was once so much better than this.'

Every day is a new opportunity to make my mark on someone’s mind though, I suppose; tuck a little bit of myself in between the wrinkles of their brain and make sure it’s stuck fast so that if I never get another chance, at least there’s something.

I’m not as good at that as I used to be. It used to be easy for me to leave an impression. These days I’m lucky just to remind those who already know. To keep time from eroding my fingerprints. It’s exhausting.

So that’s mostly what I work on now—keeping defined what I’ve already stamped. I’ve been too full for anything else. Full of the thoughts belonging to us Romantics, full of Guilt, full of Anger, full of Tired. Angry because I'm Tired; Guilty because I'm Angry and I really have no right to be.

The overflow manifests itself as so many things, but mostly obviously as static in my connections with others. Hermit that I am, when a connection ceases to be an option I grow claustrophobic in the feeling of emptiness around me.

I saw an episode of “The Twilight Zone” when I was a kid, and I only remember two parts. I think about those parts fairly often, though. I remember how the protagonist liked peanut butter on cheeseburgers, and I remember when he went Nowhere.
He stood in a big white blank, with only the occasional misty shadow to hint at some sort of dimension. But instead of that depth providing some comfort—some sense of perspective and normalcy in terrestrial space—it only emphasized the vast nothingness surrounding him.

I feel like that sometimes, usually when I’m driving and its morning and cloudy. There are cars all around me on the highway, traffic traffic traffic showing too many signs of life and yet, somehow, I feel Nowhere anyway.
A feeling of flatline; a deep-set sense of being lost, dull ache muffled by the fog.

I listen to Edgar, my iPod, but he doesn’t help then, as beautiful as the music is that he’ll play for me. No, Edgar doesn’t help cause I know it’s just a recording; false voices stuck up against the same wall that separates my mind from the world at times.

So I turn on the radio, to remind me that there’s life out there. Not just beating hearts pumping blood encased in epidermis, but working minds that are thinking at this very moment and trying to do something—anything. Sell toothpaste, explain how Swiss cheese can explode, accepting callers for these pendant keychains; I don’t care. People thinking and talking right now, right as I am and ones who aren’t on autopilot. Who aren't so stuck in their own heads they forget that life is for living. Or at least ones who seem that way.

I like the concept of radio. I like NPR for what it can tell me about the rest of the world and I like music stations for the DJ’s laughing between songs and I like them all for how they help me to not feel so alone; how they break up the isolation that threatens to suffocate me--while at the same time keeping a safe distance.

Was it just yesterday that I lost me? No, it was months—years—ago, but I guess withdraw never really ends.

I’m tired of it. I’m so tired all the time but I can still be as explosive as anyone else. There are times when I am so tired I can feel the dark circles under my eyes; I can feel the way they’ve sunken deeper into my skull and if there wasn’t so much flammable substance inside me I could easily fall asleep, but something’s lit my fuse so rest isn’t an option at the moment. Even though my muscles are shaking visibly with exhaustion from the day while my fingers twitch, missing the keys as I type, I can’t stop. I can’t be still at times like these.

I’m stuck at the moment, though; stuck inside the dorms, otherwise I would go out walking.
And if it was just half an hour later, when hallmates' guests are gone and doors are shut, I might even run up and down the halls just because I feel like I need to.

But doors are open; laughter, music floating out to warn me of eyes to see and minds to wonder at my strange behavior.

Someone would ask, I'm sure. What are you doing, what the hell is wrong with you. And I don’t want to explain.

Because it was never supposed to mature like this. It's not even supposed to crawl out of my fingertips, into these pages.

It’s like a gremlin, or like that pet that looks so adorable and harmless so you bring it home even though you know deep down you can’t contain it forever.
It grows up quick and turns on you, baring its fangs, watching you all the time with its black-bead eyes and it drives you insane, this thing you brought home.
And you know it knows. You know it’s laughing at you inside; mocking you and all you want to do is get rid of it, but some nonsensical guilt keeps you feeding it table scraps right from your hand. Your fingers start to bleed from the bites, then scar, then bleed again.
The Thing grows fat while you starve and you know this mess is all your fault.

Knowledge of the problem does nothing to change the fact.

See? Look--it’s admitted; realized.

Now what do I do about it?

We the Scissorhands/Scarlet's Winter

There is a secret that we Scissorhands alone can decipher. We brave little artists can read the lines: the knitted rows that are red like heat, purple like cold, as if we carried so many thermometers in our pockets. Crisp, defined and textured; we love them. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and our pretty pictures are beholden to us only. The heat of summer mocks shy skin, but winter is a blessed breath; an invitation to wrap up, snug and away. Shameful pride, guilty pleasure; we wink at one another, because we know you will believe anything we say.


~*~


I worry for how
I welcome the winter;
All it’s shelter and
The layers,
The way no one expects
Exposure.

I shouldn't want
This freedom,
Brought by so much
To hide behind;
To hide such secret
Tapered lines.
To cease these
Mandatory excuses;
You know I hate to lie.

Though summer's gone,
Still be careful,
Little Scarlet;
Not too low, and
Not too high.
Lovely as this may be
To you,
Don’t forget:
It is a crime.

Don’t plan it,
Little Scarlet;
You know you’ve done
So much worse.

Just avoid the mess;
You should be proud—
You are so wise
Among liars now.

Darling, I know
It’s like coming home,
But someday you need
To be on your own.

A Personal Paradox

.
I don’t want to give in, but I do want to be overcome.
.
I don’t want to be defenseless, but I do want to be protected.
.
I don’t want to be particularly noticed, but I do want to leave my mark.
.
I don’t want to be handled carelessly, but I do want to be bruised by gestures so passionate they toe the line of violence.
.

If you'd like to hear three little pieces of me...

I haven't recorded any songs I've written in recent months, but if you'd like to listen to some rough versions of my older stuff, copy and paste this link:

http://www.myspace.com/elsonadorspirit


Disclaimer: the recordings aren't great quality at all, and my guitar desperately needed new strings. I sound a bit better live.

A Brief Metaphoric Narrative

(I was a runner, once. Once upon a time, before my body grew weak, I had this strength and vitality. Remember me like that, ok?)

The day was bright already; bright and sharp like hope. In the chill of early morning, she waited on her mark for a gunshot to tell her she’d better run run run and reach the finish line.

All her life, she’d waited for this race. Every day, every minute, mental, physical, and emotional training for this—for these moments. Even as a child she knew she’d end up here, and strove to be ready.

She crouched, her heart nearly convulsing in her chest with anticipation. It wasn’t only the finish line that excited her. She loved the run, as well. Her muscles contracting and stretching, tendons tangled with bone so specifically to allow for those machine-like movements that made her feel like she had a purpose. Like there was something that she was born for. This. The track laid out before her in submission to the power of her legs and lungs and spirit; the hurdles like timber servants for no purpose but her sport.

No other runners, not even any spectators. Just her, competing against the clock.

Today was more than just sport, though. This race was the beginning of everything she’d been living for, and the end of the life she’d always known. A shiver passed through her when she realized this. Her eyes opened wider and her neck arched in resolution that was almost predatory as she trembled with pent-up energy.

Dust exploded behind her as she launched herself from the starting position, not a tenth of a second after the sound of the shot. Her feet relentlessly pounded the track as breaths came in harsh, satisfying whooshes in out in out in out of her lungs. It was as if she could feel every muscle fiber in her thighs as they pulled and pushed her knees in well-oiled circles while her calves bunched to send her feet out ahead to catch her weight and send her flying forth again.

Excitement rushed like electricity in her veins as her legs coiled to spring over the first hurdle. She cleared it easily, feeling like Artemis as she sailed over in perfect form. It seemed she was suspended indefinitely, as if time slowed down when her feet left the earth. But it sped back up again the moment she landed and with a crunching skid leapt back into her violent sprint.

One, two, three progressively higher hurdles she cleared with enough effort to feel pleased. Her heel clipped the fourth, but adrenaline destroyed any discouragement before it even began to grow, and so she only felt the thrill of the challenge.

True uncertainty only began to taint her thoughts as the fifth—the last—hurdle rushed upon her. It seemed so much taller than the last, as if the difference between the others had been doubled for this one. She was not expecting this.

The moment arrived—leap or give up now. No, giving up was not an option. In a split second she coiled and launched, determined to clear the pole. But doubt made her finely-tuned muscles waver; loosened the grip she had that controlled the balances of her raw power—balances so delicate that the slightest inconsistency could mean flight or fall.

The inconsistency was slight. So slight she didn’t feel it; didn’t realize it had occurred until the toe of her Nike brushed the wood. At that moment, she knew she would not land on her feet.

What began as a slight brush turned into a debilitating catch as she began to descend from her ambitious jump. She fell. Every shred of confidence and courage seemed to fly from her, completely out of her control just like her arms and legs and thoughts were now as the world rushed past her eyes.

A shocked exclamation bounced from her mouth, expelled with the whoosh of air driven from her lungs as she crashed shoulder-first into the asphalt. Momentum rolled her wildly some feet down the track. Pain bit into her upper arm, wrapping around and squeezing with suction-cupped arms like some mutant parasite. Other, smaller parasites sunk their teeth in all over as gravel shredded the surface of her skin and her cheek dragged harshly over the uneven ground.

To her, it seemed it took ages to get to her feet and start running again, but in reality the action was just like all the others—resolved and amazingly quick. Her boldness zipped back to her as if magnetized, and already in her mind she calculated how much time she’d lost.

She could see the finish line now, close enough to distinguish the little colored flags decorating it even though one eye was bleary and filled with dust and blood. The sight evaporated her pain. She was so close.

Her eyes flicked to the oversized neon clock that hung from the ‘Finish’ banner’s pole. She could still do this. Tilting her head like a stampeding horse, she charged forward with every reserve of strength she had.

Right before her foot crossed the line, she closed her eyes and just felt herself pass over every goal that she ever really thought she’d accomplish. Over the point on which her life divided, about which she thought ‘After that, things will really start to happen.’ ‘After that, I’ll be granted all my wishes.’ ‘After that, I’ll become fulfilled.’

Both feet crossed over and she opened her eyes. It was over. It was after. She’d done it. It wasn’t perfect and it still hurt, but she’d done it.

Joy swelled in her heart for a moment; bubbled over into laughter. But when she heard the sound of her laugh, she stopped it abruptly. It sounded flat, empty; fell dead at her feet. She looked around. No one was there. She was alone. She hadn’t expected anyone to be there, but now that she was here and there was no one, the stillness was oppressive. No breeze to make the bright flags dance; no clouds to form cheerful shapes.

Only her. Only exhaustion and throbbing, stinging pain.

Like walking into a clean glass door, it hit her: she was the only one who ever knew of this race. Her mind had formulated the goal; she had trained alone. She had even set up the finish line; hung up the clock to judge her performance. Why the hell had she thought things would change after this?

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour or more. She didn’t know; she didn’t care. The race was over. She was lost.

In shocked, baffled desperation, she spoke through the stale air to the emptiness:

“What do I do now?”

The emptiness stared back, indifferent.

The Truth Is(n't)

(Wrote this song over the summer, but I just recently finished the chords. Maybe someday I'll record it.)
.

I love how easily
You don't give me chills.
And how you made
My favorite color green
With chords; the ebb and swell.

I love how you
Made me brave;
I don't fear a fire or flood.
Even God knows
That I don't care if a year,
Or three or five or ten
Go by and I still write songs for you.

I love how these flames will rise
And I'll say, "Who cares?
We've lost it all.
Lost it long before the blaze,
So why did you even call?"

Sirens scream
Through the streets,
"Please pity, pity my fate."
Ash rain, consuming flames;
Sure, that's why I'm afraid,
Not because I'm on my knees too late.

I won't give voluntarily,
But you can have
What you can take.
And find your thrills for cheap or free,
Cause I can't say,
"Screw these mistakes."

I love the way
You make this far too easy for me to say:
That I love the way
You suffocate;
No, I can't sing today.
Not 'till you
Turn the other way.

I love how easy it is
For me to lie to you,
And I love
How that's the only thing
I've said to you that's true.

.

Some Things One Can't Deny (are as follows)...

When I was seven, I thought that by the time I was thirteen I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark anymore. When I was thirteen, I thought, “Well, maybe by the time I’m twenty.” Wrong again, but surely by twenty-five...

I don't understand why I worry so much.

I just do, and what used to matter doesn't anymore. Not as much; not with this rush rush rush and all the running I have been doing.

And talking; so much talking. Saying so much to say nothing. Saying so much to change nothing; to change everything.

Can we pretend I am mute? I am so primitive when I speak aloud—tongue-tied and stumbling—but when I write it is so much easier to say what I want to.
Please, oh please can we just pass notes across the table?

I’m realizing my stories are empty anyway; what do I have to tell? I have no justification for these words that keep pouring from me, so maybe it’s for the best that I feel I am running out.
That I want to say no; wait—just wait a second, or a year. Let me remember a few things—let me stop and breathe and remember what its like to be alone—and I’ll be ok again.
I’m so tired in this rush but I can’t stop, or my kite will catch up to me and I’ll be once more dragged down by the dead weight of summer.

My kite’s name is Despondency. Over the summer I sat still and it hovered over me constantly. Now autumn has come and I run ahead to play in the leaves, to revel in all a change has to offer, but Despondency is only behind me until I am still again; until I’m too tired to run anymore and have to rest. Then it catches up, hovering above so its shadow tucks me in too tight, like an obsessive-compulsive mother.

So to escape it I keep moving. Sometimes I can run and dance laugh with people, but when I can’t do that anymore I still am intent upon fleeing my kite, whose string seems to be tied tightly around my wrist. Too tightly—it cuts off the circulation and with every step I feel a numb tug on my hand, confirming the continual presence of my follower. I’ll stagger and limp and stumble and even occasionally crawl and thoroughly exhaust myself far beyond what I should, because when I stop for too long it settles on me, like a strange and loyal bird whose parroted phrases I am sick of hearing.

Its enough to make me think about going crazy. Not consider doing so, but just think about what it would be like; how it might progress and how I might end up. Sometimes I think it might be kind of nice to be a little crazy, just enough for people to shrug it off when you do something odd. Then I wonder, why don’t I just do those things—those odd things I want to do but don’t because of people? Then I remember that it’s all well and good to cling to cliches like, “dance like no one is watching and sing as if no one is listening”, but it’s a very rare person who is really able to do that. And that I try so hard just to engage in the basics of life that I don’t have it in me, the effort it takes to not care.

So I figure that if I was a little off my rocker, it wouldn’t be so hard—not to care, that is—and I think about what I’d do, if I was a crazy person. If I just did what sounded nice.

I would spend a lot of time in airports, probably. I don’t know why I like them so much. I know what I like about them, but not why I like those things.
I know that I like the hurried people all embarking on journeys so many miles long; I know I like the high ceilings and echoes, the gift shops full of cheap paperbacks and a Starbucks not ten feet away in every direction.

I like the presence of so many people in uniforms, standing everywhere talking into loud speakers, and the extremity of their competent authority makes me feel safe, like a child. Like if I get lost its ok, because all I’d need to do is tug on one of those starched white sleeves and they’d help me get home again.
I like that there is so much happening all around me, like there’s a storm blowing around me and I am in the midst of it, yet I am the only thing not spinning. Like others are off on these big adventures and soon I will dive in and ride the thrilling currents along with them, but until then I can just sit back and marvel; just observe and breathe, reveling in the anticipation of promised excitement.

I like to feel small, like I’m just one in billions and the world out there holds so much more than I could ever hope to understand; so much bigger than I could ever begin to imagine. Airports make me feel that way.

But there’s a bad kind of crazy too; one I don’t like to dwell on, and so of course I worry about it, too.

What if I have kids someday, and have postpartum depression and kill them? If someone can’t control their sanity, how can we not live in fear of turning into the monsters we see on TV, the ones that shock us so much? Something short-circuits in the brain and that’s it—you can’t stop yourself from killing your kids or bombing a bus or screwing a goat or a corpse. I know I’m being morbid, but that only proves my point that normal people don’t do those things. Normal people are shocked and repulsed by those things. Only crazy people do those things, and people don’t choose to go crazy. Those same people can't choose to return to sanity.

So what happens then? What happens when it’s me? When it’s you? You think it’s right, whatever it is. You don’t know the difference, and all that’s left to make you human is that God still loves you. And that, somehow, the fact remains that you’re made in His image.

How does that sound, to think that Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy Jr. and Charles Manson and Edward Gein still had the breath of God in them? How does it feel, to know that you’re the same as them in so many ways? That we’re all the same?

Keep an eye on the chemicals in your brain; make sure to regulate the function of your neuroreceptors. Too much, too little, a tiny little glitch and maybe then…
Is it your fault, if you’re off balance? Where’s the line between responsibility and an insanity plea?

What do you do, when your baby’s dying and the water’s running hot hot why is it so hot and fingers find their way to your throat and when you realize they’re yours somehow it makes perfect sense in the mind of this animal that is you?

Maybe that’s something you don’t want to think about. I didn’t particularly want to think about it either, but majoring in psychology/criminal justice sometimes brings rotten thoughts to the stoop of your mind and leaves them there for you to dispose of on your own. Sometimes you have to touch them to make them go away.

And that’s all I’m doing, note after note, post after post of empty entries and writing—disposing of notions left to fester by inconsiderate circumstance; just my irrelevant shells of whatever. And I dump it on to paper, on to you and on to You, so that this waste—these apple cores and orange peels, coffee grounds and words—don’t hem me in the way everything else seems to grow to eventually do.

I'll Say it Until I Believe it

.
Every little thing—
When I’m too loud,
When I’m so awkward,
When I’m anti-social
And uncaring;

Every word I say—
The stupid ones,
The dull,
Say too little,
Say too much;

Every little shame—
That tasteless dress,
That shouted secret,
Inexplicable pride
In some self-destruction…

Should I dispel regret
For all those somethings past?
After all,
These days were fashioned
For me.
.

A Eulogy, A Dream

I’m in love, you know. I’m in love with this idea I’ve been playing with, warming up in my mind and molding like play-dough when I’m bored, and it’s taken a long time but now it’s this perfect sculpture in my head.

It’s all these things, all these general senses I’ve picked up over time from people and movies and songs and books, and then combined with some stuff I made up myself. It’s abstract, too, so I feel sophisticated. Or you could say that it’s disorganized so I feel like a spoiled child, demanding everything my way.

Doesn’t matter—the point is I’ve got something to think about, even if the faces are pixilated cause I don’t know yet who will fill the roles. Even mine is blurred a bit. I don’t know how I’ll change as time goes on so I want to keep the image vague—to avoid being set on something I’ll never reach. Or something I’ll never be again.

It’s a feeling I’m in love with, one I’ve only ever dreamed about—a feeling of reckless abandon and the gamble and who cares, I’ll figure it out later because I have this one thing and if I lose everything else—but keep this—I don’t care.

The fuel gauge in my car always says “full”, even when it’s running on fumes. But someday, when I’m going somewhere with you I’ll pretend I forgot so we’ll break down together on the side of a road somewhere and who cares if anyone ever finds us?
Whoever you are, my pixilated paramour.

Missed appointments, speeding tickets and lost keys that doom us to sleeping out in the hall; let’s just laugh it off and chalk it all up to stories to tell later. Because we know we’re going to be ok, no matter what. Even when the pendulum it at its nadir we can run off and do something stupid, ‘cause we know it’ll be on the vault eventually. Let’s just enjoy the ride, you and I, swing unpredictably back and forth like flaming dice hanging from the rearview mirror of a 16-year-old’s first car.

That’s it; that’s the feeling. We’re already free-falling and collision is inevitable, so let’s just let the awesome rush of a thrill take us over; worry about the crash on impact cause we can’t stop it coming anyway.

I have the potential for this feeling. I’m great at denial and that’s a little bit what it is, and I think a little bit is a good thing in situations one can’t change. But usually I just come off as irresponsible so I go ahead and worry, hoping everyone’s right and that will actually help anything.

Well, people say not to worry, just to let it go, but no one actually lives that advice. And when they see someone who’s trying they think they just don’t care. So I worry for them, because I do care—about those things, about what they think of me. Maybe too much.

But I’ll survive how I can and how can anyone tell me I’m not doing it right? No one is. Living the right way, I mean. Everyone needs to change something. Some things. I’m failing in ways and so are you, so let’s make a deal: I won’t judge you, you don’t judge me. I have my reasons, and I know you have yours. Let’s be aware of our faults and do what we can to fix them, but the blame has to stop. It has to stop or I will stop; I will stop speaking and eating and leaving my room because I can’t do anything without turning someone against me.

That’s when I take out the sculpture I’m in love with; that sunny play-dough dream...even though I know it dies a bit each time I touch it.

Cause there are some times when it’s enough just to pretend that this is the fantasy—one of those misadventure games I’d play as a child in which I starred as the oppressed heroine, downtrodden but determined through unfair misfortune. So dramatic—push it over the edge and it becomes a bad novel. But one you can’t put down.

Sometimes, even if I don’t forget the things themselves, it is enough just to forget that this stuff is real.
Real, like gravel in your knees real; real like 3am in the dark when the infomercials come out with their big bright grins and their dead flat eyes, like vultures to prey on the numb souls still wakeful at this hour—we insomniacs who have so many more hours to feel the weariness that cuts down so dramatically on our hours of freedom and energy.

You stare over the top of some classic book you told yourself you’d read, stare through the screen and past the fat ladies screaming at each other, volume low and the combination of sight and sound is ironic but that irony is wasted on you, because you aren’t paying attention. You’re barely thinking at all.
Sluggish, bloated thoughts peer into your mind with bloodshot eyes, slip in a grimy claw...wait for you to turn around...and when you do they scuttle off and as they run like delinquent adolescents you hear their voices fading, “come and get me; catch me if you can, bet you can’t”.

Sometimes it makes me curious, where they go and why they won’t stay cause I really would like to get a good look at them, but I am so tired; my Ambien is finally kicking in and I doubt the chase is worth the sleep I’ll lose over it.

The fat ladies are crying now.

Time to close my eyes.