Why wasn’t I born with an adult incisor?
What makes this the year of the stinkbugs?
Where were you when I asked you to stay the night?
When is the next blue moon?
How’ve you been?
My head’s been reeling lately, but I don’t know how to put it down. Seems like this life I’m living is just writing material. That small flicker-the only way I know to describe it-of creativity wants to spark into flame. I seek oxygen, head clearing particles, enablers. This dull shadow winds from the back of my brain into my consciousness until it can no longer be ignored. Perhaps this spark contains the only part of my life I cannot ignore. This part pulls me toward it; I become a mere flutter toward the flame of my creativity, my obnoxious self-absorbed, self-aggrandizement. And, how I hate adjectives usurped by nouns with the use of “ment”. I meant to sound educated, and I only end up tooting my own horn, sounding as pompous as an airbag filled with flour. Lord help me burn out as bright as I’d hoped.
In the mornings I feel the cold creep in; it lingers in my bones, brittle as the hulls of stinkbugs I crunch on my way to the toilet. I can smell the cold go right to my brain. Chill undulates in waves of numbness which lets me know I’ve finally taken a turn toward something beyond misery. Why do you find autumn so sleepy? A crispness in the air cleans me past the cold creek which is my religion, and again I trek on. At this point, I can be sure I might never be sure of a thing in this life; however, as my godmother says, I must take action. What better to replace the longing, nagging feeling of being a husk than sailing headstrong into something…anything?