I had one of those weekends where it just rains a lot and you get to feeling like you might break at any second. There was a lot of heartache yeah, but there was a lot of learning too. And fuck, I feel like that must translate into something meaningful. Because if anything, my heart soared like a bird, and I got to look at all my imaginary bruises and point at them, only to just laugh and scream.
The newer theme of the past couple days has been overstimulation though. I haven’t had much time to write and my personal correspondence has died out completely, because of it. Being the shy person that I am, I’ve turned sharp and hard-mouthed. I hear myself saying things, even when I sometimes mean to say the opposite. There in the external realm of who it is I’ve become and what other people see, I feel like a hoax. My face is often oily and splotchy and my hair has turned a dirty shade of blonde, that looks more gray and brown than anything else. It’s that awful piss color that just reminds me of dying.
Today on my way to bring Ansel to Soccer Class, I stopped at a Seven Eleven to get a coffee and decided to get the one labeled ‘blueberry’. They had those mini ‘self-pour’ kiosks set up, and I burned my hand trying to fill up a medium cup. Ansel thought this was funny and his laughter burned just as much as the hot liquid did. There at the bottom of the styrofoam cylinder, were tiny parts of bad berry. It was a sort of storm that reminded me well of the pulp found in freshly squeezed orange juice. I looked down at the strange concoction and showed my laughing monkey friend, what mess I was gonna let fall down my throat, in an effort to get more alert. He didn’t make a face or get silly though. He just simply nodded and took a whiff of the steam, rising up and out of it. In fact, he looked grown-up when he did this, and in my mind, I aged him twenty years. He was in an office building, nodding off another co-worker. He was a winner at life. This was sure. This I could see. His smile said all it needed to.
Later, I ended up getting lost in a book, and got fixated with this story about a young boy that once had a sick and suicidal mother. He quickly imagined finding her dead in her lilac-smellin’ bedroom, and there was nothing in terms of describing the blood and gore, and yet I could see it all squashed up and real. It was good and sad, and the end was lovely, and I kept looking up the names of different wildflowers that were mentioned being in his mother’s garden. The name candytuft still even has me pinned, and my hands get all sweaty just thinking about it. I relate the white ibiris to that naughty boy, I think of in the dark corner of my bedroom always. In fact, I can feel his fingers at my spine, just like that of a crawling vine, thriving well with fruit and butterflies.