I like it here, in the past. Where just the right song unleashes an energetic flood within. Where the ignorance of youth struts through the world carrying an invisible guarantee of future ownership. Where death is just an imagined scenario of attendance and guessing how many hearts will be broken. On good days that is. On bad days it is simply a struggle to discover reasons to bother staying. Trying to believe it is their jealousy and not your inadequacy that entices such behavior. If you were not about to be King you might just give up.
Perhaps Alzheimers will not be all that bad. Living here, if I can just keep remembering here, I can stay here. Right? Believing I am a little girl, out in the woods alone, the big bad wolf by my side and a Mighty Mouse at my beckon call. It will be beautiful. Except in the awake moments. Offered a reality of an unknown old woman staring at me in wonder. Not knowing how I got into this body, this room, surrounded by all these unknowns.
When did I end up so alien? Sitting upon this spec of dust brought to life by the eye of Apollo. I know I was born this way, not yesterday, yet I wasn't bought or sold this way. All those half baked ideas on the cover of magazines teaching me exactly what I never could be. Those were the always and never of everything I was promised I would be. If I just, if I just, if I just ... turn to dust.
All that can be afforded in a time none bare witness until some bare ignorance. Laying claim that she is in the river when we all know she is of the land. A Virgo to be precise; if you ever wonder why it is that I analyze. Everything and nothing in the lies.
To make sense of it all is, at times, the most tiring thing. Forced to predict the facts of the outcome desired. Preparing for the redemption of the choice before it is ever made. A ladies prerogative presented to enhance the darkness. Sometimes it is hit, sometimes it is miss. It all depends. Just how long can you hold your own against the antagonists hatred of self. Before reaching the moment of awaited failure certain to see your rage.
Yet maybe if I just turn the page. Or the volume up on this song and the next. I can remember riding the bus next to him. What it felt like to be Queen of the backseat with clothes on. His eyes speaking the truth of a broken heart. His lips professing such strength on his part. Letting me go.
Nowhere but here, in this moment, does it matter where I came from. You can stick tape on the ends of the cassette tape and record over it all. Playing the radio, collecting the songs you can't afford to buy. Pausing to skip the advertisements of a life never to be recorded in the history where anyone looks.
©November 12, 2016