3-22-10 (Oh yeah, she's losing it)

I could scribe my life in song.
I think that is what all artist think, and then they pick up their laptops as I do know, and write some ridiculous nonsense like “Code Monkey” or “We the Dreamers” or “Like Steps in a Dance.”
And then, lo the beerholder, voila splits a song that all other artists can relate to in completely relative ways.

It probably started when they had an asi-asi day at their prep school, came home, drove to their empty best friend's house, immersed themselves in that person's scent, and observed their domicile whilst the said person was out and about. They then turned into The Almost's song “Say This Sooner” which made them realize their insociability and disgust/curiosity in the eyes of most people. They then drove a rode that was once, two days ago, new to them, but no longer has the lemon orange taste of freshness. Now, they know where they are going, that it will lead to another road on which their bodies will autopilot home, and all will result in gas waste. Upon arrival at their own dwelling, they logged into a social networking site, on which they spent an hour enraptured with the live of others. They live that hour or so vicariously, and then feel sick afterward, with a reminder of the hammering homework ahead. They begin to finish a book, for a test that they probably shouldn't take, and eventually close their eyes. They dream of outrageous trinkets and escapades that occur in seconds of unconsciousness. Life in anime or something or something or something. Upon awakening to a mother's yelling voice, they forget every excitement the day held in those few minutes or hours of deadness. They proceed to make a sandwich, and think, I could write my life in song.

She eats the same bread every day,
All those who know her call it by name.
She drinks coffee in the dead of night,
Finally realizing sleep is for the weak.
Or invaluable. Or not as valuable as awakeness.
And she also happens to take showers only so the next day she can skip one.
She burns her icy tongue every day of the week.
Her life consists of dead flowers and candles.
She blatantly speaks in secretive oxymorons.

…..I have not the patience for a song at this point, I realize.
I also have not words to elaborate my ill disposition to my wondering mother.
Perhaps it is because money is so very short.
I then remember a part of my dream/dreams, where when told the miniscule-in-comparison-to-total amount of money in my missions trip account, instead of smiling politely to Mrs. Dickens and thanking her for her concern, I took a sword and sliced down my leg. It is easier for me to give blood than money. Perhaps that is where the aphorism “blood money” came from.
No, probably not.
Perhaps my foul mood is result of a timid fear. A fear, like a shy doe, that has been frightened and runs with calamity, displacing all the neatly orderly placed places inside my chest and stomach.
I fear the lumps in my tissue.
I fear the lack of feeling and poor circulation.
I fear that my knee is still unhealed.
I think I have my memaw's disease.
I cannot escape it.

But my mother drops the topic without further prodding and I mount the stairs with my life and curse (coffee) and force myself to believe that I am too young for health or money problems.

Then my coffee gets cold and my mother calls, and I know this is the beginning of my (their) evening.