Maybe it’s the book I’m reading, maybe it’s the songs I’m listening to, maybe it’s the friends that have neglected me, maybe it’s the wine that I can’t drink, or the taste that I won’t be rid of. Maybe I’ve come full circle or perhaps my exit into soliloquy has finally dispelled me to new, barren land. They say you should never keep things bottled up, like trapped wind, sweat, gas; it’s better out than in. So perhaps you shouldn’t feel sorry for me. After all, I did choose to hold it all in -my existence- like a formerly essential fruit which my body has digested and yet refuses to get rid of in waste. Perhaps I am not as strong as I’d initially thought. If even my body is too weak to give a shit or piss away my toxins, one would think basic laws of diffusion would kick in. Nope, no farts here. I remain in this state, though not caged, the very word lends false to the idea that one could potentially be uncaged if you find the key, if you pick at the lock, if you sing the right songs and fake the right act, maybe you’ll be released. No, I’m not caged. Perhaps just bottled up? Even that doesn’t ring true. Bottled up alludes to the design that someone might one day rub my bottle and release me. Even I am not that naive, I am no genie. So what am I? Trapped? Sunken? Lost?

Maybe it’s the places I do not visit, the calls I do not make, friendships I do not keep. Or perhaps the clothes I do not buy, the laugher I can not share, the pictures I never appear in. I’m disintegrating but yet I see no traces of the dust tracks I should leave behind. Perhaps even in the shedding of myself, I am unable to make a mark. ‘X’ marks the spot, ‘alice woz ere’. Wonderland can be many different things, a sweet dream, delicious travels, hellish pets, your first sighting of freakish beings, webs of deceit, unwilling allies. This alice isn’t invited to the marvel of ‘eat me!’ no growth spurts or amazing wonders in my wake. I am hungry in a way that only truly registers when you take your first bite. With nothing to bite, I gulp for air. Famished. I’m hungry with an unsheathing appetite for things I’ve never tasted; victory, fulfilment, contentment. There is a chilling cloud that follows me without invitation. A cloud which on occasion wraps me in a fog and will have me walk blindly into catastrophe. Through theses turbulent times I stumble and hurt truthfully as did those tailless blind mice. Tears on occasion form thick blankets and handicap my sight even further. Though these days I remain mostly numb.

‘Why does it always rain on me’ Travis asked. I didn’t lie when I was seventeen. I search my eyes in the mirror for an alternate answer yet what I find is no closer to what I need than is the look of self defeat that I detect going to help me any further. I am very sensitive to things, like walking past people with a skip to their heels and gladness on their sleeves. I feel their warm aura snapping at my icy frame like specs of hot wood spitting out of a barbeque grill. And even though it hurts, I sometimes linger around to bask in their warmth. In that stolen moment, I can’t but hear the echo of words which quake me. My days might read like a bad story, my grass might never grow but for the two stumps of what used to be an oak tree, this stretch of land is still mine. Or is it? Maybe the beauty of life is never knowing. Maybe it’s the serial desertion, or perhaps never having a moment of peace lest you stop striving to exist. And why would one? Choose to exist that is. Life is a many wondrous things, none of them being any that satisfies me right now. Maybe this was all a dream.
Free WriteOreka Godis