There she lie. There she lay. Confused and surrounded by the ruins of a fortunate life – ruins caused by time, sustained by fear. The rubble piles high, for what it lacks in substance, it makes up for in imagination.
The point of folding clothes seems elusive, is aloof, and everywhere in substance. One must fold her clothes to maintain order, to defy the law of increasing entropy. A good girl must be neat, and proper, and beautiful. A girl who will have a boyfriend must be giggly, and smiley. She may not brood, nor be sullen – except for those who permanently act so naturally. Such women have the act perfected as one would an art.
I, however, am all and one in everything confined. Why must we be one-dimensional? Why must we marry, and stay on a single track, and keep one ring on that one, telling finger? I know why, but I wish the answer didn’t sit in the vile congregation of vapors in which it festers.
My inability to move, my stopped trains of thought that idle on their electrified tracks – which are galvanized with the best of sleeping intensions – cry and moan for motion to be brought into their numb limbs. Once pliable and muscular, now gone limp and fatty, such muscles of ambitions silently protest a paralyzed host on which they now feed greedily and sullenly. Such a host engaged in a mutualistic relationship. Such a host wallows in the depths of parasitism. Such a host is me, my youth.
