A new day, an old problem.

The day is brilliant- it is shining away my focus and rationality. The white outside is a contrast to the shaded and cool interior of this place. Even the dirty gravel pattern linoleum is cool to the touch. I shiver amidst the drone of students and machinery.Shivering, I am reminded of the vent above me. It is an oppressive cool, an abrasive one, it assaults thought and demands a shut down of response. The heat outside is ever more the tyrant though, and so I am glad for this oppression, being the favored of the two evils. I am sick, and rambling.

I am also a hypocrite and a dangerously self-preservationist one. Ambition is an ugly thing, a dirty thing, a treasonous whore. I hate and love her. I want to rid myself of this addiction I've developed to the pleasures and pains of my relationship with her- a mixture of equal parts torture and ecstasy. I want to close the gap.

So far have I roamed after her and the night mistress Perfection, temptress and devil (though hers is a game never won, and so I easily tire in the courting). So far and yet farther still would I roam if it meant my desires come to fruition.

I am shivering and weak, will and sustainable having left me for resolve. I am skin and bone, muscle and fat worn to the quick, propelled by the whips of a will. This cluster of impulses moves in lurching jerks- completing its task by rote memory and nothing more. Sleep has abandoned me and I long for the comfort of void and sleep. I am sick, and rambling.

Motherhood

I can't understand this: motivated self-starter and social-climbing, soon-to-be lawyer reduced to a slave to her maternal instinct. There is a sick guinea pig in my hands. It is not human; but it is my baby. God save me, she's sick, and my hands are tied.

Whispers of reassurance are nothing. If I thought it would do a damned bit of good I would storm the castle gates. I would tear through any tangible resistance, if I had any inclination that it would do the littlest of good. In retrospect I might yet, if only to externalize this powerlessness in a fit of violence.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, nor does it know torture like that felt by a woman whose child lies sick and defenseless in her arms. This is one battle I can't fight, and it scares me to the point of tears.

Nightmare Cinema

I'm walking through a dream or a nightmare. I can't decide which. It feels so surreal, I can only imagine that any moment I will awaken- wrapped warm in the folds of my feather blanket drowsy with this lingering sleep and blissful at the day's coming. Though I pray for this end, I know it will not come.

The dream plays out and the curtains part.

Act one is narrated by a still persistent voice on some far away receiver; he tells me this is reality, and I believe him. His benevolence lowers me, and I sink to my knees defeated. I am entangled in these slackened strings. This is the voice echoing in my head, it congeals to a razor point. He reminds me to fear and love alike; to bleed and to heal. This voice which reminds me to watch commands, and I feel the eyes searching back at me for signs of the break. His tone is flat and self-controlled. I hear ice and steel. I loathe that tone. It's the tone he always uses when he's furious but unwilling to betray the emotion.

And so it is. Cracks appear and the paint flays under fingers probing porcelain cheeks. But then the tender hopes fade and strings tug once more. I am moving, I am dancing, as the voice has now commanded. Looking upwards, I see candles lighted high up on the ceiling- those same hands guiding waltzes spinning dizzy. Delirium glows warm and shining, the voice speaking a velvet demand. Of instinct the strings jump and I react.

The ushers bow as act two begins full in ferocity; it's swirling around me and these insecurities take the stage like goblin marionettes of myself, deformed and mocking. They chant and cry out to me, and though I avert my eyes they persist.

The curtains remain parted, tied back taught still, and yet I have outlived my purpose. The scene plays out perfectly as I lie prostrate and helpless, abandoned with disdain. The disapproval, the loving hands having turned away from me, it scalds and cauterizes this wound searing across my consciousness. I can't scream but sit fascinated by this gorgeous implosion. Sentience collapses inward as all is drowned in a sea of burgundy velvet. Exhausted and furious, full of rage and venom I cannot move. I am helpless and ruined. Drowning and sinking, lost and forgotten at the bottom of a steamer trunk post-performance. I am dragged back into the blackness and lose thoughts of myself.

Pull my strings, for you I'll dance, and be no more myself. From this point forward no more will I think but to be of a puppet and a toy. So statuesque will I remain, thoughtless and complacent so that no more harsh words will I endure.

But please god please if there be mercy in you- to save the light shining dull in these doll eyes- wake me from this nightmare cinema.

The first of many?

So, I've left my more common internet haunt for this. Whatever it becomes from this point on is out of my hands. It may be something; it may be nothing. And in light of my indecision on the matter, I close with the words of a man far wiser than myself: "We shall see".