Where are the words for this pulsating sensation behind my eyes? All I want to do is crawl into bed with a beloved. But who is that person? I never know. I should have said yes. 

Justice? Who am I to wield the power of moral and ethical judgement? Who are you to do so? Or 10 humans, or 10,000? Moral absolutism is a fallacy. I’m the opposite of Dorothy, there’s no place like anywhere else, there’s no place like anywhere else. I do not want to exist in a world where other people wield the power to decide my fate, or take my life. But who is going to clean up the dirty work besides those whose hands are already saturated in blood and death, holding the mighty staff of judgement. I blame Eve figuratively, but I’m hard pressed to believe in a feminine catalyst to the travesty that is our civilization, seems to me women should be ruling the world.

End rant.

“You know not, yet, the sort of love that strikes like a lightning bolt; that clutches hold of you by the heart, as irrevocably as death; that becomes the lodestar by which you steer the rest of your life. I would not wish such a love on anyone, man or woman, for it can make your life a paradise, or it can destroy you utterly.” 

Too many years of mourning. I am utterly destroyed, someone put me out of my misery.

No. No. No.

I’m here to tell you a tale. A story of a woman of two and twenty years awaiting just 4 more turns of the moon for the next celebration of her day of birth. Quite beaten in body and spirit, overtaken by illness and despair in the face of the life paths she had not been able to embark on, the woman decided one day to leave the pit of solitude she had created for herself and venture forth into the woods. A recent storm had swept away her special bench near the river she had chosen to read beside at times like this. The forest was sight of devastation, but you could feel the magic and the new life that was growing within it. Choosing instead a quite capable log to sit on, the woman sat down and read about the fairy folk of the forests of Tara and found herself enveloped in a dream of faeries, tree spirits and magic wells. Could I not live in a world like this? She thought you herself. She snapped the booked shut in dismay and jumped up off of her log in a most fluid movement, pacing around shore of the river. Signs of human life were scarce, but present, angering the woman fiercely, for humans had surely taken the magic out of this place leaving their remnants behind. She started wandering away from the water and deep into the woods nearby. Winter was waning, and the signs of new growth, the changing of the seasons was present and she reveled in the reoccurring understanding of being part of a universe so much larger than that which she had henceforth believed. The trivialities of others had become a nuisance to her, knowing that the selfishness of mankind and understanding that it was necessary to live only for oneself. In desperation, she had taught herself this skill many moons ago, never liking the taste it left in her mouth or dark blemish on her spirit whenever she must employ it. I am a woman of the people, she thought to herself, yet blindly, we all walk past each other and rather than a quiet prayer to the goddess or a small smile of understanding, we do and say nothing. Dancing politely out of each others way, keeping ourselves locked up and away from prying eyes. She had grown weary, weary of the polite understanding of personal space and privacy. I just want someone to sweep the hair from my face away and look deep into my eyes. I am not so scary. Or perhaps, I am. Perhaps we all are, she said to herself.

The fairy folk were surely walking along with her in the woods that day, it seems the river curved and she came upon it again. She had never been so far, her fear of man had always overcome her curiosity to venture forth alone. It was a different day, the birds were singing and if you listened carefully you could hear small animals scurrying away from the unknown presence in their home. The breeze itself seemed to be calling her forth, carrying her. In quiet contemplation, she hopped over broken trees, stopping here and there to whisper a prayer to the tree spirit, wishing it a fine journey and thanking it for providing herself and her kin with oxygen, shade, and shelter for what was inevitably many lifetimes before hers. She felt the desire to be reincarnated as a tree, a willow tree, malleable, able to bend and not break, offering shade to weary travelers when weather was most fierce. Neither tall nor short, but formidable in it’s own right. A willow tree I would like to be now, for my ability to withstand storms is surely lacking, she thought to herself. It was something to be considered on the way back to her home, for the sun was starting to go down and the breeze that had been welcoming became caustic against the exposed skin of her face. She shared a smile with a man who seemed to be on a similar journey as herself on that day. He seemed wary, but she did as well. She had lost the ability all people have as children, to judge a fellow person just on their very presence. What seemingly is an excellent survival skill seems to be lost with age, a conundrum if any.

The woman went back to her solitude, making an oath to begin anew, and wept over the life she might have had, burning the physical reminders of in it in a funeral procession of sorts. New life, she decided was the key. A new garden, a new life plan, a new person, a new inner peace. The ability to touch others and be touched in the way of healing was her goal over the next many moons. The soil will be tilled and the seed planted 3 days from now, and she will have a garden of herbs to heal ailments of both the spirit and body, as well as a companionable way to spend time with those she loves best. Her tale is far from finished, but perhaps it will become a tale of joy rather than sorrow. To be continued.

“…occasionally I wished I could walk through a picture window and have the sharp, broken shards slash me to ribbons so I would finally look like I felt.”

“I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is. I don’t know. Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?… I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don’t want any more vicissitudes, I don’t want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.” 

Mellow, mellow, mellow. Mellow yellow. My heart swells, the wolves circle, there is nothing, they dissipate. 

“A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.”

I will recover if it is the end of me. Bukowski speaks to me. He’s everything I would be if I had a greater taste for alcohol. The ugly old bastard had more women than I could ever hope to. Or want to, really. Women are trouble, but men are wicked. I like to be alone.

“Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgment that something is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.”

Seems relevant. I hate that valentines day is coming up. I am drowning in this misery.