s.a.d.

Wednesday night much more lively
And I more anxious
That spoken words will torture me
When strangers approach
For reasons unknown
And I prepare to fight or take flight
Because I am hard wired to experience my mutation.
But I take solace
That I am able to make sense
In writing and sort out my deficiencies.
While also making them tangible.
I’d love to write of beauty
But comfort is only what flows
From brain to hand to fingertips to paper.
Maybe once I have it all sorted out
I’ll be able to remind myself
Of the true reasons to live
The beauty of life and science,
Which explains all beauty
Unaided by chemical dependency
or compulsions
That force me to write between the lines and fill up pages
And conform to ancient standards
Passed down and accepted over generations.
I find no comfort in tradition.