Where head I? The same destination I've always sought.
Always magical because of my fabrications, but evermore to
Lack your material presence- just like I... Oh..
Kind you are not, in being or in thought.
An average walk; one I take with the most frequency. All about me are various trails to traverse, heading here or there, but I always head towards the place that enchants me with memories of you and all I attributed to you and how much you always meant to me, for better or for ill.
The five corpses of cormorants have decayed, I notice, but whoever the sadistic man is who is killing them must have attempted a sixth killing: a poor cormorant hobbles, with one wing extended- broken, shot, or both- as fast as it may. I make a note to seek it out on my way back and perhaps inquire as to what can be done with it, rehabilitation wise. It scoots off and I feel terrible and guilty but continue down the road of sugary, dirty sand.
A family- mother, son, and daughter- are underneath the bridge. I believe I frighten the lady, who probably assumes that I am off to either use or buy drugs. I smile meekly and continue on, forsaking my usual gaze into the brown water.
It's nice to get out, and out of my house and out of all other stifling, oppressive places, my problems are more clear- revealing that they are, indeed, insolvable but at least able to be classified if only I would bring a pencil and paper to write it all down for future reference..
There are many, many birds out, as it should be. I believe they are robins; they look like the proud bird I saw hopping about in Idaho. It's pretty. It's nature. And it reminds me of you. It makes me wish I weren't alone, so that I could vocalize all the small joys I could feel from what is about me, if only the darkness within me weren't suppressing such things. I continue on.
My thoughts follow the same pattern they have for years as I walk here.. Still! Still I cannot understand these things! Still I lack hope in the most complete way, both consciously and unconsciously, and yet simultaneously hold on to a dream- as the basis for that dream within me crumbles to minuscule pieces. The thoughts I harbor are the same I did a year ago- a year and a half ago- very near to two years ago. It is as if I cannot extricate myself from a cruel dream in which I play the part of one who can be neither pitied nor liked, loved or hated, understood or misunderstood, and though living, can never live because others have denied her existence.
Dreaming. It must be a cruel dream. No one lives like this, right? No one is like me! Not one person! No one holds on to the things I do! No one is so suppressed in real life! No one is imprisoned by their very existence! No one is given only one exit: death! Therefore: I dream; surely I dream.
But no one will wake me up. The ones I love care not to do so.. Why? Why am I always first to be forgotten and hated?
But I do not cry. I do not wish to return home, to my mom, with incriminating eyes and a reddened face. I do not wish to brush off the truth and ignore the elephant in the room after it has kicked me in the face.