In the manner of exhibiting an act of selfishness - I announce my own exhibit. It's called: I am goign to act like I did when I was a teenager and drink (against authority) and write, and chain smoke cigarettes. We will not know where the story goes, exactly, but it will proceed, nonetheless.
Early in the evening, I shower, I *carefully* shave every part of the female body that you can (with the exception of eyebrows and headhair)...Slide into a little skirt and other light clothes, and I wait.
As I wait, I open a beer. I have made it a point to see that the children are gone for the evening as well. I cook dinner, and drink my beer, one after the other; make the phone calls for the drug errands to be done and continue on with the usual duties that I have assumed. As time passes, he filters into our room, where, I figure it would be an opportune time for a nice, warm-lotiony back(and front) rub. Plans are in motion now. It should be obvious with all the clues - what the pinnacle of the evening should bring.
But, no. It does not.
It climaxes to heavy lids for him, and a heavy, vehement, emotionally disturbed thought process for me. What the fuck do I have to do? Is this normal? Am I normal (probably not)? Does he dislike mostly everything I do? What the fuck? I think I may be losing more of my mind...
"What's wrong with you?" I am asked.
I answer with silence. Silence, because I know that my response will not be remembered anyway. Besides, my response will be probably be something pretty dumb.
I feel defeated, amongst many other things. Feel as though I've only made life easier by getting the children off to their father, and really - the night has proved to be not so different than any other night anyway.
So, what is the point? Is there even a point? What is the meaning of this random babble? I do not know....but I continued writing, regardless.
Some entities that are unseen, but definitely present, are lurking about, bringing negative energies. This negative force has consumed me entirely over the past few days, and has made me feel rather helpless, hopeless, beat down and inspired me to want to merely give up on everything. Something,is making me weak; fueling a fire of wild indifference. The question is: Why does it remain?
In fifteen minutes dawns the 'witching hour' perhaps I will get a clue to those energies that fuels our negativities and feeds them, as well. My eyes are heavy, feel semi-swollen, like when you're welling up inside and about to cry. The lids serve as a dam to untapped vocal-isms; to buried thoughts; to shoved-under-the-rug reservations.
"Do you really want this?" I ask aloud.
But no one answers.
Only me.
And no longer do I listen to what I think.
As the heart beats, it seeps blood
from old times
and words that I need to speak.
But I am so frustrated with the technicality and specifications on how to make people happy, or even, merely content, that I do believe that I have even lost the ability within myself to please myself.
I do not feel full grown
or responsible, more like a trapped adolescent who feels like a time bomb.
There lies no peace; is no complacency
Thoughts wander out of control, and tears make me feel weak -
not where I want to be.
I'm a clean junkie, off the dope, but still have some urgent needs.And through all of this, I can see that I am not really 'clean'...Merely sitting at the end of the rainbow, with my legs dangling over the edge , waiting for gold; with all the dreams of my world, slumped underneath me. Feeling like my responsibilities are negotiable, and knowing
that they are not.
I want to scream; to sing...
But my wings have been clipped
The caged bird that can only wish to be free, from itself.
Here, there is no love. I am creating most real, most hated nightmare.
Pushing off against a wall to swim deeper, and pushing away...Will I push so hard that no one ever comes back?
Lost in this brain sea....I try to identify the soul with the dirt...compare it to the moon, to the sky; to the stars...This thinking is no real good. Just a good let down.
Streaming around the corner; collapsing into a silent room - hair, cloth, skin, all falls around into a pile.
Pick me up...
But whom am I speaking to?????
No one's going to be the one to lift me up. It's only me.
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Copyright 2011 K. Anne Smith
