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while lying down thoughts invade her mind and the words that she wants to commit to memory flow through her like fish in a stream. flashes of silvery bellies and rainbow scales flitting in and out of the surface tension. but the momment she stands up, the momment her hands touch the keyboard the fish are gone. downstream lost in the flurry of activity never to be seen the same way again.crushed bone pulp for a smile she sees her hands bloody and full of violence. a slow driver, an akward look, he co worker that just won't SHUT THE FUCK UP! where do these passions come from? she tries to keep still. to keep calm ... to not let the little things invade and poison her mind. but they do. she sees red around every corner and wants to attack it and punch and scratch until there was nothing left. lonely anger seething from every pore. who to talk to who to laugh with . inside there is a small child second grade walking on a playground. looking for a forgotten sweater but seeing much more.
did it happen? was it made up? was it the fear that made the secrets begin? was it the speaking out that brought the fear?
can we trace everything back to child hood or is there a point where we have to take action and forget the blurry past. memories that might not be memories. dreams that actually happened. sights that might not have been real. confusion. and sexual awakening. did she fuck her self up? is there a support group for what was done, what has happened? how to speak it out loud. the fear of talking. the thick walls of protection the layers. letting so few in . keeping many out. the jelousy the envy. the indiffrence. missing the closeness of companionship. missing friends. missing being young and never having to think about herself. missing being un self aware. and when did that happen? self awareness. were did that comefrom? actions with consequenses. long rants and bad spelling. is this life now?
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i read this: sleep- |