Most days it doesn’t need to make sense, and on occasion the mind is allowed to cycle to fantasy, because it quenches the thirst of creativity, and wraps a blanket around the cold, even if only for an hour or a day.
Most days it’s soothing to know love never leaves, and on occasion the mind is allowed to kiss a mirage, because it’s trained itself to feel what it believes to see.
Most days it feels fun to pull out the crossword puzzles to make sense of the hints, and most of the time they spell support.
But some days, fantasy feels like hell, and reality her doorway. Every color on the paintbrush dries dull, and every blanket is a stained and tattered cleaning rag that can’t hold a speck of dirt, let alone someone’s arms.
Some days it feels like abandonment never left, and that life has been nothing but a story of pretending loneliness and aloneness aren’t familial alligators chasing the mind to it’s sorrowful death.
Some days it feels as if it would be better to be ignored than watched in silence, for at least caring and not caring, or loving and not loving, or hoping and not hoping would not feel so confusingly similar.
How much more can be hidden, that has not already been revealed?
How much more can be hurt, that has not already been forgiven?
How much more can be hated, that has not already been loved?
How much more can be followed, that has not already been led?
How much more can be lied, that has not already been true?
Most days every question can be turned by degrees with no change in meaning, but sometimes, the turning keeps the heart stuck in something frozen, and in this life, the soul seeks a melting point.
Most days it feels to be syntax dressed in pentameter rhinestone heels, but sometimes, it feels to be the barefoot prosody of death that turns all of life into an etch-a-sketch, by shaking every memory and thought from the skin and bones.
To live life pretending to be more than no one, can be fun for some, but for others, they have read too many scripts, and live simply to await the final bow and curtain close.
Some days, I am the producer, but most days I am the audience, applauding with tears that carry neither joy nor sorrow, anxious for the crying crowds release, that all can go home and sleep in peace.