A daughter
was born a millennia baby. This little creature, without much definition. Her parents
wrestled with images, or internal gnarms’-binoculars, and real mean to
themselves. Such self-loathing—such pure mud—where their souls desired
something they could not believe in: faithful skies, unharnessed beauty, or
hallways absent of pantomime doors. We could breach fidelity, but fidelity
seems young, where pain was remote, present, and activated as a behavioral
force.
The little
baby was precocious, dynamic, eager, or plain rambunctious. She dined with grandmother—this
silent, observant, even clerical woman. Such by laity, or a Buddhist soul, or a
female incarnation of grace by loyalty. The little one adored her. They glimmered
in essence, paid close attention to each other, where grandmother needed a
cigarette. (But a fair complaint, and a rude complaint!)
Both
father and mother entertained sky-leaves—those irregular buds, those green
delivers, where a best-friend was sticking so close. However, days are not
about fidelity, but nights are concerned with inevitability, and a daughter was
crawling in a home with shadows: those large, intrusive elephants; those
demolishing forces, where people addicted are hard-pressed to grow emotionally:
this wave of impetuousness, or anti-reason, while someone was watching.
But
what befell the little girl:
a
glass home a skyglass ceiling and vandals carrying scribes; to etch into their
glass, to inscribe their insignia while mother was suffering this need to re-exist
and father was suffering this need to readjust. (We sit is situations, longing
for clarity, or so oblivious to details—we believe everything is flowing
smoothly). But their realities were unstable—where perception was unfettered by
determination, morals and ethics, or even sacrifice. Love for them, was love
that catered to things others considered irrational. This need for submission,
while fidelity was discharged, but each yearned for more; like an ever-giving
soul, where loyalty is for debate, while one extended a level of servitude. Indeed,
a child was born to souls that were maladjusted, even addicts, while each had a
wall for a mirror: this caged rationality, this personality-gatekeeper, this
lover of self and self’s ego—where the child was perceptive, even prophetic,
but their internal adversaries were screaming for something with less
responsibility
The
child was deprived. Both parents were absent. There was this need for something
more fast-paced, or to be the object of one’s desire, or to let loose and get
so lost it is hard to return.
While
the child watched, too young to form memories, and so loyal to something
dysfunctional. This big-eyed miracle; or this history we never mention: those furtive
elements, those dark-burgundy secrets, to get in and realize this is not what
the mind envisioned: these insecurities, or pleading for those old lovers, or feeling
like somehow in all of this winning there is a great deal of losing. The body
craves its drugs. The mind craves its friends—if but to be queen or king in
those established castles. Those old galaxies those old footprints as to dine
and laugh in passion and nakedness while thrown into some unencumbered and approving
universe; for life was beautiful, the child was the beloved, but something, so
early on, was misperception.
