I’ve never much identified with sad. I’ve been hurt and torn and scared. Flippant, anxious, wary. I’ve known the sting of betrayal’s infection; I’ve known the throbbing wound between my shoulder blades, and the twist of the knife as it deepens.
I’ve known anger and the many masks it wears; dressed up on a Friday night in a skin tight dress, whispering nonchalant come hithers to proxy suitors... for the sake of knowing I still can.
But despite the odds and circumstance - I’ve always and only ever been happy; a storyteller who detaches from her past by making light of, and carving prose from, the hard and the bad — Out her throat or pen, word by word, line by line - even pages at a time...
...To now sit here, watching ants crawl so gracefully over blades of grass, some fifty times their size, and wonder how I ever came to place so much reverence on my own existence.
Without weekends or evenings to excuse their timely vices, they march on, over my feeble shoes - the likes of which only bear to tread backwards.
And I look up, basking in this summer sun, under heart shaped rain clouds drifting upon my head, as if I’m held within a snow globe, where time is frozen by self-infliction.
What is it, to want the lines to blur? Just so they won’t mock you? Who is this person who doesn’t want to wake up? Who sleeps to dream of a world in which she’s regained some sense of self? How much, how many things, and people, and places, will it take to numb her?
“I understand now why people die for love,” I say to myself ----- wondering, how far the girl who feels too much, will go to feel nothing.