I yelled through the glass until everything began to drive in slow motion. I have no idea how that story crept upon me, but it closed off every crevice that I attempted to retreat into. People change on a whim while outside forces chisel away with a constant showering of mental debris that ultimately becomes what you thought were stepping-stones in directions that might cling unto stronger merits. It adheres like wet sand, and weighs down the attempts to find any reason, any footnote that could foretell some point of direction that you were headed. You will never know that magnitude. It sews my insides into a thousand knots, each one a pulsing reminder of how it feels to be kept outside of a crowded room. A room keyed for everyone, but you.
And then it all comes spinning down, the awards will be handed out two-fold. For someone who really won’t survive half as long as you did. It will be hollow and transparent. The cardboard walls will dampen and be flung to and fro. It won’t matter, and it will draw all to gray. People will look for you in them, and they will feel lost. Then and only then, will the spiderwebbing synapses of thoughts play out and write the story that you would “want to believe” was going to happen. The one that had already happened, you were just too entangled into believing how you wished people wouldn’t see it for what it was, and only being succumbed to what was really streaming right in front of you. It was real. More tangible then you’ll ever feel. And it slips away just as easy.
It’s written above your head, only you can’t see it. It’s tattooed under your skin, only you can’t feel it. It makes the timbering of your heart rattle when you breathe, leaving you shaken, and tired, and empty. And you will allow it to drag you behind the curtain one more time, until it spins you disarrayed back through piles of your own curtailed decisions. Decisions that now become an undertow over and over, spray painted upon the very direction that you walk. And those new stones will shoulder you repeatedly until your bruises all begin to bleed.
It’s gutting. Like meaty ropes growing out of your sides. Stumbling, with feeble ankles rallying across the grain of the floor. It’s hoping that you find that hearth, in something – anything. It’s being lost, surrounded by arms and you being blind to the touch. I leave it, pulling at my head. I lay there letting the minutes bullet across my face. They stitch me to the floor as I talk the rain into just drowning me out. Drowning me out loudly so that I can crawl under the covering of sleep, again.
“You own everything that has happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” -Anne Lamont