I don’t think I ever realized I was experiencing my reality below the line. I was clinging to the false hope that maybe my past would return to me. That my existence before would somehow show up. The existence where I didn’t have so many secrets, so many haunted thoughts that reared their heads like summer in the middle of May. Isn’t it funny the ways seasons approach us? It is like one second you’re sitting on your sofa with the breeze of April blowing through the cracked windows and the next you’re cracking your windows just to breath. I wonder what it would be like to live somewhere where summers weren’t so hot and you were never drenched in sweat. But it wasn’t that I loved him. I mean I loved him like I loved the moon in a longing, sweet sort of way. It was more of an escape to an unknown world where I could live a deranged fantasy of thoughtlessness or suppression. Suppression of the consequences of my actions, like never making the mistakes I made before by covering them up with the promises and the hopes of true love. There really isn’t such a thing as true love. There are two souls, two people, melded together through brittle iron, lust and hate. At least, that is always how my love stories end up anyways. It is like a glass of wine half fun, a twinkled night full of hopeless gazing and slithering tinge of regret masked by nerves.
We live in a world that is dictated by factions and quadrants of socially convinced rules governed by who? Who are these governors and governesses and would they so dutifully show their heads and unravel their lavish fabrics that were threaded together by my grandmother’s thumbs? My feelings are prolific, they’re not weighted by the mounting pain of my thoughts and my mind. And I express and move freely, the way I move my mind to the slithering bite of my tongue. But back to my love story, it isn’t really a story. It is a fabricated fantasy pieced together by deleted text messages and dodged glances. Each fitting together like a shirt fit for a woman who hasn’t fully digested her lunch.
If I can make it past lunch tomorrow, I think I’ll buy myself a goat. I mean a whole farm of goats. I want like 100 goats. Why can’t 100 goats equate to one man? Why can’t one thoughtless, impatient, immoral animal equal another?
But what about women? Are we really that dispassionate of creature that our actions can be withered down to the passing of calculated responses that so manipulatively react off one another? Whatever happened to living in the goddamn moment? To feel your feelings for what they are and to present them authentically? Are we that presumptuous? But I think the problem is I am one big, giant walking red flag. And I guess that’s where my ghost stories play the foul to my academy award-winning performance of Paige on speed in the middle of an ally. I’m a flogging, drudged, spaztic verbal mistake – really I’m hella extra. But what if one man could make you feel that way? What does it mean to be fully open and present to all that you’re experiencing without hesitation? Couldn’t that be enough to end all strings of acquaintances that lace together like knots that are pulled out of thick of my thighs one dreaded knot at a time? I wish I could go back to the 90s, I always felt like I was born in the wrong time period. I always imagined scrunchies to look like the round, donut rainbow rings we stacked as children. Maybe, that is because to him, I am a child.