The Mess of Her

I often seem to spill myself upon the world around me a dark stain upon the crisp white shirt of the human experience....I stumble through life and when it accidently looks good I pretend it was a dance...a skill that I spent hours practicing and working on but in reality the only thing I managed to choreograph was random chaos. I often feel as if Im a child playing house only pretending to be an adult..I know this must be true because adults do things that for some reson still elude me like check the mail every day they dont walk by the bulging mailbx day after day looking at it afraid to open it knowing within the confines of that locked box the evidence lurks that ive been found out...that the jig is up...perhaps it was the small pile of unopened utility bills that made me...or the mess of angry doctor notes wondering why Ive missed my appointment yet again...only a child would put off the mamogram thats so important because breast cancer is practically encoded within the DNA of my family's female bloodline...but I think the final tip off has to be the huge hole in the dirt beside me where I bury my head daily because God knows if I cant see them then I must be invisible forgetting that at this point the only thing that isnt invisible is my huge rear-end sticking straight up out of the dirt and into the air...the rear-end I perpetuate with the same sort of ostrich style dieting as my ostrich style invisibility...a belief system with priceless gems like if you eat standing up theres no calories...or if you dont get a plate and just eat from the box theres no calories. and as foolish as it sounds even as I say it out loud I still continue to do it I still continue to practice it every single day....all things a real adult would never do...a real adult goes to the gym every morning at 6...a real adult eats things like hummic and drinks protein shakes and says things like hello..how are you...she dosnt drop her eyes and stare at the sidewalk with every approaching passerby praying to God please dont let them speak to me..please dont let them see me... A real adult knows how to drive a car and go to work every day ...she somehow juggles husbands and children and employment and might even find time left over to pursue her passions...she dosnt hide within the confines of an unrealized life doing the very thing she hates by sabotaging her ability to excell...who lacks the courage to implement the very last step that just might be her ticket out and all she has to do is just click on the send button...and the biological clock on the wall continues to go tik-tok tik-tok and time is a passing...but that seems to be the only thing thats moving other than the sun charting its course from one end of her apartment to the other day after day after day she exists inside a bouquet of velvet moments heavy and laden with dense emptiness....she is addicted to the very prison she longs to be free of...the mess of herself.

Reviews

[roarke]

I well written train of thought. Biographical or otherwise. You write a very accessible style of prose and reality in your writing. When writing is good, it's good.