winter of our discontent

I've spent numerous days counting out the many grievances of the world upon achy fingertips:
1. Overpopulation -- a gentle flick of the thumb.
2. Dissociation -- the index gets a pinch.
3. Quality/Quantity -- the middle bends back under pressure..
(just to name a few)

But, wait. Let's turn this around and take a different approach, maybe towards enlightenment rather than burdensome.

I lay my palms up so my skin can feel the open air with its full attention. The sensation simultaneously makes my head swim with pleasure, my eyes close as if to draw focus towards feeling every molecule floating in the air. This, and much more. I am most enraptured with my ability to surround myself with life and the things that I love: growing knowledge, a healthy body, kind souls,  creative minds; an insatiable yearning, mountainous books for me to befriend, and John Steinbeck.

I'm trying.

animosity, my friend.

I've got issues. I mean, who doesn't? We live, we deal, we escape, we cope; whatever works for you.
My problem is that I am a good person. I have a kind soul and I aim to please, even though it means putting my needs into a deep, dark hole that no one --not even me-- will ever find. Well, my needs have grown putrid, oozing foul pestilence from their pores, seeping into the walls that house them. They rise on full moons to scrape and crawl their way to me; haunting me like my own little zombie army. Slowly, this pestilence makes its way into my veins, and to my soul, where it feeds on the best and brightest of my qualities.

I can't get myself to type the words. I still shrink away, pusillanimously.
My mother is killing me.
There. I said it.

Emotionally, she is dwindling my will to live; a black hole that feeds on guilt, obligation, and piousness.

I've got to stick with it for six more months... I can leave her, and my mind can, again, parry these violent thoughts that plague me.

It's about that time.

I'm at the age when things start to fall apart for the people around me. Slowly, we are all plucked from the warmth of a nurturing breast and shoved into the cold depths of reality. I can accept death and pain quite easily. I have this knack of taking it personal, as if my soul feeds on the stuff, but the hardest part is watching the ones closest to me crumble --seeing tears drop and facades quake. No. You don't get to feel miserable because that's all mine. It's the only thing I have. You live day to day in a state of ignorant bliss. Leave my world alone. Your kind are not welcome here. But, that's the thing, little girl, you're not the only one.. Mountains rise and crumble all the time. Let them in.

Let them in.

How broken can a person be before they cross that fine line between the living and the dead?
I wonder.
I ache.
I shout at the stars above me, 'damn you! Take me already and leave me at peace.'

and all I can think of is...
"pull me out of the wall. I'm stuck. Pull me to the other side."

Nothing feels quite like it did before.

People.
You reckless and predictable peoples.
The mass; a swarm of drunken bees.
I want to join you and I want to love you,
but you all make it so impossible.

This fragile ticking time bomb, lodged in my cranium, is not on my side. Albeit, we share the same body and existence but its sole purpose is to destroy me. I'd elaborate in all styles intellectual, but it has crawled back into its deep, dank hole where it will whomp and wallow.

I've met another fictional lover. We have a date, soon; you'd adore him, he's nothing like me.
His name is R. F.

.

Hello?
Can anyone hear me?
Am I coming in clear?

It's been a long while since we've last spoken. I hope your feelings towards me have not changed for the worse and if they have, well, here is a cookie as a token of my apology. It's peanut-butter. I dare you to hate me now. Here, have some milk with that cookie. Why all of the hospitality? -you ask. This is my attempt at controlling the beast [me] and rejoining the world [you, the internet -please, like I'd even attempt the real one].

I fell too deep, but with my trusty, bloodied fingers, I crawled out and showered accordingly. My fingernails have been buffed and shined to a blinding gleam; my hair has been brushed and untangled while various life forms found are now being studied; I chipped my tooth but unfortunately that's going to stay like that for a while. You can hardly notice it, if even at all, but to me it's my entire fixation. My tongue is constantly entertained by feeling the jagged pattern over and over and over again.

My loving literary companions had a difficult time soothing me. They shout from up above, "come out and play," encourages Dr. Hockenberry while he scans the horizon for the bristling Zeus, "we don't have time to dilly-dally, unless you've found something interesting in that hole you're going to have to pay for this hold up." I try. I try to lift my eyes to view him, but they are clouded and scuffed with dirt and it's too easy to not do anything. "Forgive me," and I lay my head down. Next, the rumbling voice of Tolstoy drifts into the empty space that I inhabit. "My child, why do you stoop so low when the world yearns to let you fly?" Even with closed eyes I can see his light and feel his wisdom. And, like a wounded animal I feel shame in the sight of such power before me, yet, he is not here to chide me. He throws down a rope and softly says, "when you're ready I will be waiting; we're all waiting." The constant flow of tears soon washes my eyes free of grime and I can see; there is a fire roaring above and I hear laughter and smell a sweet meat cooking. I long to walk the surface even if it's a crawl. When I reach the top, I am greeted by the most rewarding view of all: Muir is sitting with his right leg crossed on his left knee, he's sketching the company around the camp fire with a calm and careful eye for detail; Pullman is smoking a pipe with his hair disheveled but looking dapper yet, I wonder how he does it, and he beams with such a friendly disposition; Keats is entranced by the fire, no doubt, lacing together the most perfect words to describe the dancing flames, his mind occupying a space untouchable to mere mortals like us; London is there wrapped in a parka and a sardonic smile; Hardy, Maugham, Nabokov, Dostoevsky, and Bronte are engaged in a card game and furiously attentive to the pile of upturned cards on the stump in the center; someone has won, Nabokov claps Dostoevsky on the back and mutters a vulgar congratulations; And there is Tolstoy, with his arms out stretched to welcome my arrival. "But, I'm so dirty!" I shyly mutter, at once very aware of his crisp white shirt. He huffs and clasps his big arms around me. Happiness flows freely and I am home, again. Why I ever left is a mystery to me.