I want my tombstone to say:
She lived her life.
Refused to bow down to convention,
to anything that questioned
the existence of her happiness.
But I also don’t want it to be a lie.
A fairy tale spun to keep me alive.
I sigh, I sigh, I sigh.
Most of my day was spent perched on the edge of my bed, my face tipped upward, my hands flat on the skylight and my eyes scanning the sky. They are calling it Hurricane Bertha. The glass feels cold against my nose, leaving a smudge at every touch. There is a storm coming, Mr. Wayne. I whisper the words to myself, pout and all.
My tree is losing leaves as I type,
braving a storm, staying strong.
A metallic crash, a clanging.
My cycle has taken a hit.
One for the team,
two for living the dream.
I would go out and put it right, but my mind is occupied: if most people are other people, then who am I? There are questions swarming my conscience, enough to string through a thread and wear on my head. A crown that has lost its jewels, a stride that has lost all pride. No books were opened today, only glanced at wistfully. Touched, but never held. I wish I could stay, say that I’m sorry, but I’m always in a hurry, always so hungry. For new thoughts, fresh ideas, a mesmerizing strain of minuscule interpretations, each different from another, yet bearing semblance. Are they all really mine? But most importantly, is this all there is to me?
There was a time when I liked to be unraveled, I’m sure of it. Why else would I’ve allowed it to happen? Like a hand-knit sweater, maybe a Christmas gift. Bourbon in colour, smelling of mothballs and seaweed, causing the mind to drift in two tangents. Staying in one place for too long, locked up. Floating quick rivers to meet high sea. Constant, yet ephemeral. My wrists are dabbed in perfume, the one which always reminds me of certain memories I know better than to recreate. The day I stopped trying was the day I knew I had grown up, moved on, learned a lesson or two. Also, what kind of a life is it, if the best has already passed one by? Not mine, that’s what I’m trying to determine.
I’m not questioning your beliefs.
No, don’t get me wrong.
This jaded look
almost makes you pretty.
I pull on the sweater as I speak my mind. Head first and then my arms. Sleeves pushed back and trousers rolled up. I would stay back for a chat. But I’ve things to put upright. My tree, my cycle, my mind, my life. I see a pattern here, if not by design.