Sunday, November 18, 2012

Wouldn’t you just love that?

 
I sit here by fire light wondering who I am. What is it that makes me so special? Have I lost sight of that? Why do I always go back to this? The dimly lit cigarette, the hellishly hot latte sit in my right hand. As it trembles in attempts to warm itself against the brisk wind I feel its movement reverberate up my arm and, matching the beat perfectly, into my heart.
My balcony sits above the city. From there I can see the beauty of all that is around me.
I wake in the morning and see the sun slowly peaking its dreamy head from behind the tops of the trees across the highway.
The birds don’t fly this high. Typically their songs that remind me that no matter what is going on in this life, life is still being lived are unheard. No bird sings tonight. No sun shines. Even the more distant stars are hidden behind the smoke and smog of the city. Nothing is here to cheer me up but the distant idea that my heart still has rhythm and if it were to rain, not a drop would burst open onto my head without me allowing it.
The pain of my yesterday is something that I always return to. The pain of the physical abuse continuously beats upon my body. The tears that flowed down my oil ridden pimply skin, that always followed a good dose of emotional abuse and guilt, eternally fall. I want nothing more than this heart to stop beating. And for these tears to drown me and for my body to give under the pressure of the patriarch’s fist. They know nothing of my struggle, they know nothing of my pain. All they can really see is the blood that drips from their wounds. For once, I would love for them to look beyond the scarlet tinted lens they have stapled to their eye lids to me, their product.
I sit in my high rise apartment looking through the glare of the candle lit living room to nothing. I sit alone standing in a puddle of my own waste hoping that from it will come growth, meaning, and a life lived freely.  But will it? Or will I continue in this pattern of self-destruction?
For once, I want my heart to beat for itself—for the blood that cycles through my system to flow for itself. But my wants go unnoticed. My blood pumps for whoever will give me the time of day beyond a simple hello. Like the common cold my virus comes and goes and no matter how much growth I’ve felt in the mean time I am always caught off guard, always unprepared.
When will I be okay? When will I abandon these thoughts and take up joy as the center of my life? When will these tears stop staining my pillows with dried salt at night as I sleep? For once I would love to wake up and know that I am still breathing. I want to wake up and truly know that the pain of my yesterday is just an ingredient used in the foundation of my success.
When I close my eyes I am still in the same position, lying naked upon a hard cement floor with nothing. From here I can feel my lungs beaten by the tobacco and asthma barely attaining the strength to pull in air. I can hear them working. They sound like a card board box being dragged across a dirty floor by a person thinking that through dragging this box they will be able to one day stand atop it and gaze out over their pain.  
Take me from this prison I have so successfully dropped myself into. Remind me that the key to the lock is already in my hand. Hold me and walk me to the door, show me how to put the key in the hole and to remove myself. I’ve seen the red tape you have meticulously placed upon the floor guiding me to freedom but I can’t seem to gather the strength to walk it. Peel my limp and cold body from the equally destitute floor in which I lay upon, and with care, walk me over the red tape to the door leading to my freedom.
Haven’t I served my sentence? Haven’t I already paid my dues? Have I cried enough tears to pay the bounty for this? What else do you want me to do? Is it that I need to cry more? Shall I weep so violently that the bolts holding the door on its hinges break from the jostling of my body quivering, like an epileptic? Because if that is what you want, then that is what you will get. Tell me, show me, scream to me from ceiling of my cell your desires. Once I know, I will perform for you. Once again, I will dance for you. My impure and naked body will move to the beat of your desires and quench your thirst. It’ll be beautiful. Wouldn’t you like that God? Wouldn’t you just love that?