Do you know that I am mad?
I mean mad as in abnormally-minded.
I know you've got no idea what I mean; I hardly understand myself.
Let me tell you: my happy place, that watery oasis...it harbors a blue pool filled more than most. Some days I feel the rivers running right behind my lashes and have to wait hours until they can run, and when they do it's a release of every bad thing I harbor in this ritual cleansing of the mind and heart. Do you know that I am mad? Yes, you do.
In bed, I grasp fabric like it anchors me and cry softly because that's the only time I'm comforted - under comforters. I'm a piece of artwork then and there with wear and tear and very much abstract. And sometimes, I even watch my reflection with her dewy, sorrowful eyes, so lovely - the only time I don't find that face ugly.
Don't misunderstand, this is not an artificial lake that I pine on the shores of. If I don't feel the melancholy like a warm wave coming on, I don't force it. It comes at its due time in the night, slowly and building in my throat and pit where the butterflies sometimes play. It rises to the chest, almost exciting (some of those papillon got away). It visits me, the compassionate spirit of tears, strokes my shoulder, my hair, and eventually, maybe hours later, shushes me sweetly to sleep and leaves, taking with it any sadness I didn't have the strength to bear.
Sweet, so kind, so wise and comforting. Now you know my little motive behind lies, my frequent evening escape, my little habit I won't break. Please don't call the therapist for me; I don't want any pills.
With something so life-integrated as this, you realize that my heart for the bitter fruit is not only confined to the dark of midnight. In the day I seek the art of the world. Without a little hue of a sadness, the tinges of longing soul, what is it? The blue hue deepens that false front happiness that I understand no one really has, and it brings complexity to an otherwise blandly unemotional, unattached performer. Beautiful child, I'll comfort you, lonesome singer. I'll be your spirit of tears; I'll stroke your hair and you'll sing me to sleep.
