I have spent time with myself so consistently that I grow weary of my own thoughts, this changes…I brood on nothing that is meaningful and ramble through my ideas of self worth and identity. I am told that I will grow strong, this horizon and where it is, I do not know. The idea in itself is easy. But as I consider this, that I have, in my young adult life, not that I am young now, just considered by some, that I have not been able to accomplish the existence, the horrid, elusive manifestation of my soul, my heart. What I wish and desire, more that life, that existence itself, has it brought goodness. To only me, am I to realize selfishly that I am nothing without my children. My heart does not understand it’s own survival. It does not acknowledge what-in my stupid, juvenile, idealistic heart, that it is not so…to believe in something so pathetic, and to live it, because it’s own belief, that has no basis, no proof in reality is. I have a large world of happiness that I have seemingly ignored. Haven’t I? And I tell myself again, reassure my mind, lest it be gone, that I am a good mother. This is not about being a parent. When, really everything should be. I continue to ramble in this sense hours over. I forget to spell, words, and continuing business fall out of my brain, only to find themselves unfinished. I cannot distinguish myself from them. I am left with nothing, my belief, without them is not real. Has it always been imagined. I am not a victim. I have not been these many years since. How could it be possible that I shall suffer the same consequence, yet again. When I have already done, the so pathetic, again pathetic, things that have been the largest challenges of my lifetime. This, I admit, they are nothing, to most, who has suffered, the most insufferable experiences. Yet, I cannot sleep. Again, and always, I sit, and I dream, alone. I am not whole. In day, I am awake, and I laugh. I do not cry, not until I am alone. I am left with what. An un so holy disposition of what I despise….what this is I do not say. I am only to state the obvious. That I cannot see myself in a position, in life that is, aside from my beautiful children. A position of motherhood, that is beyond comparison, that from any other trifles of my heart. I am nothing. I cannot sleep alone. I do, because I must. Not to share my bed. This is not the subject that I am addressing. Really, this is a random excuse to excavate the shattered thoughts that do not manage to congregate together. The thinking is so scattered. I am not healing, instead, I travel to a darker realm of my ownself I have not seen. I do not know her. She thinks of things, accepts and welcomes the nasty untold things she despises. I think, I will paint, I tell myself there is no time. I will die with nothing complete. I will not marry. I promise myself. Ever. Maybe, marriage is a discusting thing, meant to poison in disguise of an imaginary beautiful. No, it is my stupid, pathetic heart again. I do not know you. And I am not whole. I am so far from who I believed myself to be. My children sleep. I cannot sleep with them. Because I must, in my selfish disgust of what has become to me selfish me, I must cry. I must feel everything that I created for my pathetic heart. I cannot do this to them. They deserve more than anything that I have given. I feel myself growing savage. There is no strong. Only weak and pitiful. I am moved, without content. Somewhere in my history, in my thousands of daydreams I have imagined this life. I have imagined myself in a set of misery. I had it everything so perfectly planned. So many different dreams…I was to have a boy. His name was to be Michael Joseph, a proper bible name. I was going to marry luther snoke. He exists, he never liked me. I was obsessed. I have always been obsessed. There has always been a distraction. He was 5’3” when he turned 11, on march 24. Why do I still know this. I cannot forget the things, so many things that I have experienced…they haunt me. They haunt me still. All at the same time. But I do not have recluse. I have no stillness.
Today was a beautiful day. I could see color, feel color, contour, does this make sense, somewhere I remember I need to paint. I need to flood myself with beauty and words, and knowledge, and I do, I need this. I miss my children. Always, I feel guilt. Horrible throbbing guilt at my disposition, and my selfish need for sadness. It floods me again. The choking in my throat. I cry still. What of that. I stole that from Shakespeare. I loved the whole, what would it be, phrase. I wrote it on my hand, everyday until I could remember it. Pathetic little heart. “but soft, what light through yonder window breaks, it is the east, and juliet is the sun. Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon, that is already sick, and pale with grief that thou her moon art far more fairer than she, but not her moon, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is sick and green and none but fools do wear it, cast it off, it is my lady it is my love, she speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?” I still do not know what this means…vestal livery. I had always been so beautiful. I love this. It makes me warm for a moment. I would wait on the corner in the cold, to not miss you. You would, sometimes, take so long. I did not want to miss you. When you would come your hair was wet, I would watch as the drips fell onto the upholstery. I wanted to touch them. To wipe them away but you never belonged to me. They never have. I would walk past brookhurst, past queens kitchen, over the hill. I remember it would always be hot, drenched in sweat. I would walk as slow as I could stand to arrive before you, but not appear eager, as I was. I remember crying, because I liked you and did not know that you could ever want me. It has always been pathetic. Not just now. I have always been this person. So seemingly worthless. I give myself away, always. Until I am alone again. I always wanted to hear your voice. I ached for the sound of those words, I never heard them. They never came. I would not say them, forbidden to me, always not for me, for a distant lost before me. Instead, I assembled them in my kiss… I picture myself a walking tragedy, so pathetic. I know I am. I will not let myself be convinced. “who so ever pulleth this sword from the stone”. I grew up on disney movies. Enchanting aren’t they. Only, I did not ever learn this difference in love. I have always picked an impossibility to complement my torment. My need to be imagined in reciprocal. Quite possibly, only in dreams.